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Put Layers of SOLID MUSaE
on EVERY IIKHof YOUR BOmr!

Amazing New
Home T

Gets

New kind of home grymna- niTFPI^f
sium quickly builds smash- y^*VIVi
ing muscles and tremendous all-around bodily
strength. Rebuilds every muscle. Gives you
new stamina, endurance, and never-failing energy.
Read the 22 big features you get— more than ever
before offered at this price by anyone, anywhere
at any time!

rL-

OOK AT ALL YOU

22 BIG FEATURES

1 -
2 -

< • —

calves.

A New Type Hand Grips— strengthen

^ fingers, put new force into wrists,
forearms.

e Patented Stirrup— will not slip. Puts

** new nower mlv, 1e<ra muscles of

7 Chest Expander— Ten Cables, 200 lbs.

• resistance. A quick way to build the
kind of chest you have always longed
to have.

Q Muscle Clock— Measures your muscle

^ power. Shows what your muscle
power is in pounds.

Q Foot-Gear and Ankle Strengthener

—to put new endurance into your
ankles and to lift and strengthen
your arches.

1 Special Skip Rope— for increasing

* speed and developing your wind.

1 1 20 Famous Wrestling Holds— clearly

* * pictured and described.

1 2 Secrets of Jiu JItsu— making you

the master of any man, regardless of

his size.

1 ^ 17 Right, and Wrong Boxing Positions—

* ^ clearly shown in pictures.

10 Feats of Strength —tricks you can easily

do which will amaze every one.

IK 17 Tricks of Hand Balancing— some of

the stunts which have astounded you on
the stage.

1 Food Facts— scientific information told

* V in a simple way. What to eat to create new

power and vitality.

1 7 S Special Ways to Get Bulging Biceps—

*• clear instructions for using this apparatus
to rebuild that specific part.

J g 6 Secrets of Chest Expansion. ’

1 q_The Stomach Muscles and How to

* *' Strengthen Them— special advice on this

important zone of the body.

20 New Power Into Your

Legs and Thighs— many otherwise strong
men are weak nere.

2 1 10 Hints on Increasing the Strength of

" * „ You r B ack— for greater lifting abiuty.

22-^—^^*'^^^^ Letter to Men— Pointing dangers

and safeguards you should know for your
own protection.

THE HOME GYM CO., Dept. 68

131 East 23rd Street, New York City

Send me at once — in a plain, unmarked container — complete home
gymna.sium, including all features listed on this page. When package
is delivered I will deposit $3.95, plus actual delivery charges. (Out-
side U. S. send $3.95 cash with order.)

If, after 5 days examination, I am not delighted with this complete
outfit, I may return it and you will at once refund my $3.95 in full.

Complete
Nothing
More to
Pay!

ALL

Features
for this
Amazing
Price

State

□ Check here if you are enclosing $3.95 right WITH this counon. B
In that case, we will pay the delivery charges here and you
will make this saving. ■’ P

SEND NO MONEY

You don’t have to send a penny with this coupon. When
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special price of $3.95 plus actual delivery charges.
(This one low price includes ALL these 22 items— no further
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Then if, after 5 days examination, you are convinced that
this complete home gymnasium will pot give you the kind of
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confident specimen of physical manhood — if vyOu\,are^»not posi-
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to send back all the material you have received, and your $3.95
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Don't be satisfied with anything dess than the kind of body
you have always wanted! . Don’t "put off" doing something
about it — now when it is so easy to rebuild yourself this new
way! Mail coupon — without money — at once. THE HOME
GYM CO., Dept. 68, 131 E. 23rd St., New York City.

A STREET L SMITH PUB

VALERON

EDWARD

r^U'RTH ‘f
DIMENSION 4

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A STREET & SMITH PUBLICATION

The entire contents of this magazine are protected by copyright, and must not be reprinted without the publishers' permission.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Thought-variant Feature:

THE LIVING EQUATION 6

A startlingly new conception

Novel: schachner

FAMINE ON MARS . . . . . . -72

Of the desperate struggle to survive
by FRANK K. KELLY

Short Stories:

TIME HAVEN 42

by HOWARD W. GRAHAM, Ph.D.

A SCIENTIST DIVIDES 53

by DONALD W ANDREI

DRAGON’S TEETH 63

by WALLACE WEST

THE WAND OF CREATION 98

by RAYMOND Z. GALLON

THE STOLEN ELEMENT 107

by PAUL ERNST

Serial Novels:

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON (Part Two) . . 20

Carrying on the Skylark tradition
by EDWARD E. SMITH, Ph.D.

THE LEGION OF SPACE (Conclusion) . . .118

by JACK WILLIAMSON

Fact Feature:

LO! (Part Six) 137

by CHARLES FORT

Readers^ Department:

BRASS TACKS 151

The Open House of Controversy

EDITOR’S PAGE . 150

Cover Painting by Howard V. Brown

Single Copy, 20 Cents Yearly Subscription, $2.00

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George C. Smith, Jr., President; Ormond V. Gould, Vice President and Tre^urer; Artemas Holmes. Vice President
and Secretary; Clarence C. Vemam, Vice President. Copyright, 1934, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.. New
York. Copyright. 1934, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., Great Britain. Entered as Second-class Matter,
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The liner rushed upward and outward — fated to become a new
asteroid, swinging around the Sun in a majestic period of five years
and thirty-four days.

The Living Equation

Our Thought-variant for September

by Nat Schachner

Illustrated by Elliot Dold

B ill SIKE was a burglar; Hugh
Wilmot a mathematician. Which
was a misfortune. Ever after,
Wilmot was to bemoan the fact that
their respective roles had not been re-
versed. Nor would Sike have raised
the slightest objection. Quite the con-
trary !

Sike, when he picked on Wilmot’s
small but comfortably furnished home
on the outskirts of the great city as a
suitable site for the exercise of his tal-
ents, had no inkling of what awaited
him. If he had, he aggrievedly in-
formed his interlocutor after the event,
he would rather have marched to the
nearest police station, confessed to the
contemplated crime in future, and ac-
cepted with a cheerful and philosophic
mind a three-year stretch in the can.

But then, as his guide, mentor, and
counselor, “Louie the Eel,” pointed out
with much penetrating language, it all
boiled down to the fact that he, Bill
Sike, was a disgrace to the profession, a
blundering idiot, and a stumbling ama-
teur. Catch a skillful craftsman like
Louie arousing a household in the
course of his nocturnal business, or fall-
ing all over a lousy infernal machine in
a mad attempt at a get-away !

So the world was thrown into a state
of convulsion from which it has not yet
extricated itself, without at the same
time having any clear idea of the exact
mechanism of the debacle. Bill, for
particular reasons associated with the
laws on the statute books governing

breaking and entering, maintained a dis-
creet silence, except to the aforesaid
Louie the Eel, and to Hugh Wilmot,
who was able to exercise a certain com-
pulsion.

But Bill, as has been stated, was not
a mathematician. He could not remem-
ber, under Wilmot’s most stringent
cross-examination, just what it was he
had done, and the almost supernatural
phenomena of which he was an un-
willing witness and sole human par-
ticipant had left him reduced to a state
of incoherent gibberings. As for ex-
planations, alas

Wilmot knew the explanations. He
had been in the habit, when the hour
was late and the wine good, of ex-
patiating to his friend, Arnold Polger,
certain fanciful theories which Polger,
a lawyer and an intelligent man to boot,
received with a certain open-mindedness
because mathematics generally was in
all conscience mysterious enough.

But it was the method, the accidental
concatenation of levers and light im-
pulses and whirling disks which set the
machine into strange motion, that ex-
cited Wilmot to frenzy. Bill squirmed
and growled and groveled, and swore
that he had been too busy with panicky
flight before, and too terrified after, to
know what he had done. The machine,
of course, was wrecked, together with
everything else.

Wilmot, being a mathematician, cal-
culated the possible permutations and
combinations of all the levers and light

ASTOUNDING STORIES

cells and disks he had incorporated into
the damned thing to be a staggering fig-
ure with enough naughts on the end of
it to take five thousand men five thou-
sand years to exhaust every possible
combination. That is, even if he could
reproduce exactly what had taken him
seven years of ceaseless toil to construct.

So it was that Wilmot tore his hair
and fumed helplessly and swore at an
unkind fate that had not destined him
to be a burglar from his cradle, so that
on that eventful night of September
16th, he could have burglarized his own
home and crashed into the machine him-
self.

This is how it all came about.

ARNOLD POLGER followed his
host patiently through the library and
living room into the rather large cham-
ber that had been built to accommodate
week-end guests. He was in an ex-
pansive mood. Sally, the cook, had
thoughtfully provided all his favorite
dishes, and the cigar in his mouth had
an excellent aroma.

He liked visiting his friend, Hugh
Wilmot. Law was an exacting pro-
fession, clients sometimes bores and
judges a curse, so it was a relief to steep
himself in the rarefied, but extremely
exciting, atmosphere that eternally sur-
rounded the mathematician. It sharp-
ened his brains, honed them to razor
edge, even though he could not often
quite follow the glittering dance of
equations.

Wilmot flung open the door. “This,”
he announced with a certain pride, “is
what I wanted you to look at.”

Polger surveyed the machine with
considerable interest, but no under-
standing. It filled half the chamber.
An intricate array of gears meshed on
ge.ars ; innumerable levers connected
with turning wheels underneath the sup-
porting stanchions ; and thick cables ran
to an auxiliary motor. Photo-electric
cells cast a strange bluish glare on every

disk and gear of the complex rr.echa-
nism. And midway between machine
and ceiling, motionless, suspended from
no discoverable source, was a smooth,
round, transparent globe, a hollow, thin-
walled bubble.

“Well?” he said at last. “What is
it?”

“An equation producer. I’ve worked
on it for seven years, and I think I’ve
got somewhere.”

“Oh !” Polger said disappointedly. He
had been intimate with Wilmot long
enough to understand mathematical
phraseology. “Something like the
‘brain’ machine at Massachusetts Tech,
for solving differential equations, or the
tide calculator at Washington, eh?”

He was really sorry. After all, his
friend was brilliant, and he had re-
ceived in the course of years many cryp-
tic hints of this ceaseless toil of his.
He had expected something more.

Wilmot glared at him reproachfully.
“I said equation producer,” he said,
“not equation calculator. I choose my
words carefully. Those, clever as they
are, are mere glorified adding machines.
They solve the differential problems that
are fed into them, problems for which
any mathematician of modest attain-
ments could get the answers with pencil
and paper and a few hours’ work.

“This is something different. It
starts where the others leave off ; it is a
mathematician on its own hook.”

Polger puffed comfortably on his ci-
gar. “Suppose you explain,” he sug-
gested.

Wilmot gazed raptly at his creation.
“You notice the hundreds of levers and
disks ?”

“Yes.”

“Every one of them, when set, rep-
resents a definite component in an equa -
tion.”

“Exactly the same as the Mass. Tech,
‘brain’,” Polger pointed out.

, “In a way,” Wilmot admitted. “But
with a tremendous difference. These

THE LIVING EQUATION

deal with vectors, directional mathe-
matics, and tensors, the mathematics of
strain, the most advanced and intricate
of all forms of modern analysis. With-
out these twin flights of man’s genius,
we should be helpless to explain the ex-
act inner workings of the universe.”
His eyes held a far-away look.

“Sometimes I think that these sym-
bols, the little scratches we make to rep-
resent vectors and tensors, are the uni-
verse, the structure itself, and that what
we see, the physical, the mechanical, are
mere outward clothings of the eternal

mathematical thought. We ”

.“In other words, your machine is an
improvement on the others,” Polger in-
terrupted hastily. He had heard Wil-
mot’s peculiar theory before, and it still
didn’t quite make sense to his practical
mind.

Wilmot smiled grimly. “Not at all!
My machine will, I hope, build from
where the best of us leave off. In other
words, it will take our most complicated
tensors and vectors and proceed as
though it were itself a supermathemati-
cian. It will construct of its own accord
new problems, new equations, beyond
anything I, or any one else, liave been
able to accomplish so far. It may even,”
and Polger was surprised at the light in
his friend’s eyes, “create an entirely new
order of mathematics, something as far
beyond tensors as they are beyond the
multiplication table.”

Polger’s cigar had gone out. He for-
got to relight it. “But then you have
created a real thinking machine,” he
said slowly.

Wilmot nodded. “Exactly!”

THE LAWYER was l^ewildered. He
looked again at the complex array of
steel parts and photo-electric cells. It
was exactly the same as before — incom-
prehensible.

“But how? What force ”

“Light, electricity, energy waves,”
Wilmot responded promptly. “It all

goes back to my theory, the one you
listen to without grasping at more than
the hem of my meaning. Mathematics
is real. The higher equations, educed
solely from the inner consciousness of
our greatest minds, without former
roots or counterparts in the world of
what to us is physical reality, have, for
all their seeming violation of common
sense and things as we see them, satis-
factorily explained the constitution, the
very essence of the universe.”

“I still don’t ”

Wilmot disregarded the interruption.
“I felt therefore that these symbols we
evolved were as much existent and' en-
dowed with a life of their own as, let
us say, the Earth and stars and the atoms
whose actions they explained and pre-
dicted. Suppose, I thought, we could
actually clothe these abstract symbols
with physical reality, make them mani-
fest to our senses, would they not in-
teract, produce new forms, even as hy-
drogen and oxygen in close contact will
form a new substance — water.”

Polger lighted his dead cigar with a
shaky hand. Had his brilliant friend
gone mad from too much pondering?

“I am not crazy,” Wilmot said qui-
etly. “I succeeded. Each disk can be
moved to a position corresponding to a
directional vector. Each lever, depend-
ing on the amount of thrust, warps the
flat steel and creates a condition of stress
and strain corresponding to a tensor.
A steady beam of light, playing upon
the warped, directed disks, suffers cer-
tain minute changes. This accords with
the theory of relativity. The rays are
then reflected to the photo-electric cells,
each contacting a single disk.

“Electrical currents are set up in the
cells, and these in turn are focused in
beams within that globe you see
suspended in mid-air.”

Polger, his head spinning a bit,
craned his neck upward again. “I was
wondering about tliat,” he said.

“That,” said Wilmot, “is my great-

ASTOUNDING STORIES

est creation. By a series of strategically
placed magnets, thermostats, electrical,
and other controls, I have eliminated or
neutralized every possible force that
might have acted upon that quartzite
globe. To all intents and purposes the
vacuum within is a section of empty
space, quiescent in a universe of its own.
As far as it is concerned, the rest of the
world of matter and force has no mean-
ing, no existence.”

Polger gasped and looked a bit more
respectfully at the motionless orb. “And
what may the purpose of all this be?”
he asked faintly.

“It permits the electrical impulses,
each slightly varied by its vector and
tensor component, to interact without
the disturbance of any outside force.
Nowhere else in all space does such a
condition obtain.”

“I begin to see,” Polger said thought-
fully. “And you think that the mathe-
matical waves, so to speak, finding
themselves free of all interference, will
combine to form new equations, which
in turn will fall into new combinations
— new to humanly acquired mathe-
matics ?”

“Exactly!” Wilmot grinned delight-
edly. “And I’ve evolved a method for
imprinting the new series on revolving
drums from which it will be possible to
effect intelligible translations.”

Polger felt himself in the presence of
great forces. He was awed. Sudden
desire swept through him. “Try it out
now, Hugh,” he said quickly. “If it
works ”

Wilmot smiled and shook his head.
“It isn’t as easy as all that,” he said. “I
haven’t completed the series of tensors
I want to feed into the machine. I
want it to be the highest flight yet of
the human mind, the next step after
Einstein’s world equation of ten vari-
ables. To-morrow it will be finished.

And to-morrow night But we’ll

sleep on it, old friend.”

A half hour later the house was

dark and still. Wilmot, strangely
enough, snored soundly, while it was
Polger who tossed and stared wide-eyed
at the blackness of the night outside his
window. Sally, the cook, in her room
in the attic, dreamed, as she did every
night, of the handsome prince who came
to solace her subconscious for her dry
and withered spinsterhood.

BILL SIKE moved silently to the
rear of the house. Thick clouds ob-
scured both moon and stars, and the
house itself was but a vague shadow. A
perfect night for a burglar !

He flicked his pencil flash cautiously
at the low-lying kitchen window'. Louie
the Eel had taught him that early in the
game. “Most people,” remarked Louie
sagely, “is dumb. They lock their doors
with fancy locks an’ patent chains ; then
they go ahead an’ leave a window wide
open.”

Bill chuckled. Smart bird, Louie !
For, sure enough, the upper sash gaped
invitingly. Within seconds he was in-
side, feeling his way carefully through
blackness. The next room was the din-
ing room. He cast a small questing pen-
cil of light over its contents. An
old-fashioned sideboard of rubbed ma-
hogany took up almost the entire oppo-
site wall. Bill grunted his satisfaction.
Sideboards meant silverware, and sil-
verware was convertible into cash.
Louie the Eel took care of that. He
shifted his sack to his other hand and
advanced.

In so doing, he brought his shin in
sharp contact with the edge of a chair.
The chair moved violently against an
end table, which tottered and sent a lamp
crashing. Bill himself howled with an-
guish at the pain to his shin. He had
not learned the art of repression.

Arnold Polger, still awake — his rest-
less thoughts had traveled from his
friend’s machine to more important
things, to wit, whether the bill he had

THE LIVING EQUATION

sent to a certain client had not been un-
derestimated — sat bolt upright. He
shouted fatuously: “Who’s there?’’

Sally, with the salt kisses of her
dream prince wet upon her lips, thudded
back to reality and screamed. Wilmot
shot from healthy sleep to instant aware-
ness. His first thought was of his pre-
cious machine. He left his bed in a
single bound, and his bare feet made
quick patter on the carpeted stairs. Pol-
ger groaned and followed, stubbing his
toes in the blackness.

Sike was aghast. His first solo bur-
glary had ended in disaster. His shin
throbbed and his flash had flown from
his hands. It lay at the farther end of
the room, making a pool of radiance.
He glanced wildly around.

Feet and accompanying voices were
catapulting down the rear stairs, cutting
off flight through the kitchen, the way
he had come. A door loomed dimly to
his left. He darted through it, curs-
ing.

Some one yelled “Stop !’’ behind him.
Panic gripped his vitals; he lost his
head. He smashed straight on, missing
the door to the outside and safety,
smacked his shoulder against the open-
ing to the spare chamber, spun around,
howled, and went headlong into the
darkness within.

Cold metal caught at his feet, tripped
him. He thrust his hands out blindly to
save himself, and sprawled, flat, out-
stretched, heavy, against serried banks
of levers, buttons, and disks.

At once there was a whir. Things
moved and slithered beneath him. A
humming sound smote at his ears. Out-
side there was more sound — the noise
of an aroused household.

He scrambled off the spinning con-
traption, whining in self-pity. Then
he screamed in good earnest. His head
was back and his eyes glared. He for-
got the inglorious end of his venture,
the looming hoosegow.

UP ABOVE him, suspended in mid-
air, was a huge shining globe. The light
within it was ghostly, shimmering. It
looked to his affrighted imagination like
a bodiless head come to plague him for
his sins.

Even as he stared, paralyzed into
stone, mouth still open from his scream,
the globe swirled with strange green
currents which grew thicker and thicker
until they seemed liquid, oily.

Fantastic configurations appeared and
disappeared within its depths, succeeded
each other in rapid succession. Cubes,
rhomboids, cones, parabaloids, then
shapes and forms beyond all human or
physical conceiving — fourth dimen-

sional, fifth, multidimensional, swirled
and melted with the rapidity of their
contriving. Higher and higher they
built up, pure sirupy vibratory essences,
until the whole mass seemed to explode
of its own complexity.

The globe expanded into an unknown
dimension and disappeared suddenly.
Waves of green luminescence beat out-
ward, surrounded the burglar, pierced
through the confining walls of the room
as though they were so much glass, went
on and on with unimaginable rapidity,
beyond the speed of light, past the sub-
stantial stone of the house, into the
night, engulfing, swallowing up, fields
and rivers and towns and the solid earth
itself ; New York, St. Louis, San Fran-
cisco, swift-cleaving liners in mid-At-
lantic, soft green isles in the South
Pacific; London, Paris, Moscow,
Shanghai, the Gobi, Eskimo igloos in
frozen Greenland, whales spouting in
Ross Sea.

Out into space the radiance went, im-
pacted on the Moon, pierced it through
and through with green fires, expanded
outward with ever-increasing velocity.
Within seconds Mars, Jupiter, Pluto
were aflame with virescent shine ; the
Sun shuddered and masked its yellow
heat under the tremendous influence.

And still the beating waves did not

ASTOUNDING STORIES

cease. Space rolled up like a well-
scanned parchment before their gigantic
strides. Alpha Centauri winked sud-
denly green ; so did Sirius, Procyon, and
far Aldebaran. The Milky Way glowed
with the strange gleam and the Galaxy
was hurdled. On and on, spanning the
nebulae, racing through island universes,
past Andromeda, until the very outposts
of the scheme of things entire were far
behind. Out into the emptiness, where
matter did not exist, where space itself
was a figment, where the waves of
mathematical probability were the only
reality in the inchoate, unstirring dreams
of creation.

And the heart of the universe, the
core of all things, was in a room in Wil-
mot’s house.

A ball of liquid green light hung mo-
tionless where the globe had been.
Within its strange consistency was a
paradox. Featureless forms, passive
activity, abstractions made visible,
mathematical equations of dizzying com-
plexity clothed in ceaseless vibration.

Bill Sike moaned and remained rooted
to the floor. Terror robbed him of
speech, of movement, of any human fac-
ulty of comprehension. Outside, Hugh
Wilmot, pajama-clad, hurled himself to-
ward the open doorway and crashed into
an invisible wall that sent him back, bat-
tered and reeling.

Arnold Polger, barefooted, came pant-
ing up. He stopped abruptly, stared.
“What the devil’s happened?” he
gasped.

Wilmot did not answer. He crouched
like a linesman, smashed forward again.
He brought up short, his shoulder com-
pressed, and once more he fell back,
face twisted in agony, frenzied with
something Ijeyond agony. Yet no ob-
struction showed.

Polger plucked at him with restrain-
ing hand as, insanely, he bent to resume
his futile charge. “Don’t be an ass,” he
said sharply. “You’ll kill yourself.”

Wilmot turned his tortured face to

him. “Don’t you see?” he almost
sobbed. “The machine — it’s worked!
Some one — that man in there — started
it — somehow ”

POLGER peered through the lumi-
nescence that bathed him, together with
the universe, and saw the fantastic ball
within, the fear-frozen figure of Bill
Sike. His legal-trained mind responded
immediately. “He’s a burglar,” he
snapped. “I’ll call the police.”

“To blazes with the police!” Wilmot
shouted. “I’d give a million dollars to
be in there, in his place. Something
has happened that lay beyond my wild-
est dreams.”

“What?”

Sally, stringy gray hair in iron
curlers, voluminously wrapped in a flan-
nel nightgown, stumbled down the
stairs. The queer green radiance was
unmerciful to her sallow, dried-out
features. She saw the globe of light,
saw Bill Sike, who, released from his
paralysis, made a wild dash for the door,
to be smashed back from nothingness
and converted into a gibbering, moan-
ing wretch. She screamed shrilly.

“Shut up, Sally !” Wilmot snapped.

But Sally was beyond hearing. She
was already out of the house door, into
the green luminescent night, running,
sobbing, shrieking, cutting her bare feet
on stubbly grass, crying doom to all the
world. Nor was she alone on her wild
flight that night.

Wilmot caught his breath. “It’s mad,
mad! The equations have formed in
the globe ; they have spawned and com-
bined and propagated new equations^ — •
I catch faint semblances of mathematical
abstractions clothed in being within ;
but they’ve done more than that. They’re
affecting the universe ; changing its
laws maybe.”

He glared at Polger in a sort of futile
frenzy. His voice rose almost to a
scream. “They are the universe! You,
I. are mere illusions, manifestations of

THE LIVING EQUATION

their eternal configurations.” He
gripped his friend’s arm with fierce
strength. “Good Heaven, man ! Do
you realize what it may mean? Sup-
pose they spawn a new type of mathe-
matics, non-Euclidean, non-Rieman-
nian, non-tensor, non-vector, something
that does not fit in with the present
laws on which our universe is con-
structed.”

“Well, suppose they do?” Polger said
a bit impatiently. So far, it was a mere
matter of light phenomena due to that
peculiar globe which, strangely enough,
had disappeared. He was more inter-
ested in catching the burglar. The man
might come out of his groveling fit any
moment and make a break for it.

“You still don’t understand !” cried
Wilmot. “Our universe would vanish
like smoke into the limbo of forgotten
things together with the underlying
equations which were its basis. An-
other universe would take its place, con-
sonant with the new mathematics. That
light is spreading. Heaven only knows
how far. It’s alive, sentient, instinct
with the newborn equations. It will
devour, destroy, the old, the accus-
tomed.”

Polger stared blankly. His practical
mind fumbled at the implications. “And
what will happen to us?” he asked
feebly.

Wilmot laughed bitterly. “Us?” he
echoed. “We’ll be dissolved with the
rest of the illusions. There’ll be no
place for our symbols in the higher
mathematics. If only I could get in
there, to stop the machine, to see how it
is set.”

He shouted, hoping to break through
the wall of force with his voice, to
reach the groveling burglar, to make him
understand what to do. But Sike rolled
on the floor in a veritable fit, nor could
he have heard in any event. The force
bubble that had been thrown around the
room was impenetrable to any agency
known to man.

POLGER still did not believe. He
shifted uneasily from one bare foot to
another, acutely conscious of his state
of undress, of the fact that the un-
canny green light was playing nasty
tricks with their complexions. He
wanted to call the police, the fire depart-
ment. Those very practical embodi-
ments of law and order in a universe
of law and order would know just what
to do.

Wilmot’s cry brought his head jerk-
ing up. “It’s come ! The new order of
equations. They’ve just spawned. Our
universe is done for. Good-by, old
friend ! If only I could understand, get
in there ”

His voice trailed off; he fell uncon-
scious.

Polger lasted a while longer. Per-
haps his physical configurations con-
formed a bit closer to the new laws.
Bill Sike lay inside, mouth agape, foam
frozen on his lips, eyes protruding, to
all appearances dead.

Polger saw the uncircumscribed ball
of green liquid flame change slowly to
a pure supernal orange of dazzling hue.
Figures, vibrations, swarmed in cease-
less whirling within. Then suddenly,
there was a soundless explosion, the
strange component abstractions fell into
a pattern — a. pattern into the depths of
which Polger’s mind penetrated for one
instant of breathless, awful comprehen-
sion. ,

For that one instant he was in tune
with the new universe. Then, as the
ball expanded and rushed to engulf him,
he, too, fell unconscious. Never after
was he able to explain what it was he
had seen, what for that one dazzling
second he had comprehended. Wilmot
swore and fumed over him, even as he
did over Bill Sike, without result.

Polger shook his head feebly and gab-
bled about forms that had gone beyond
all dimensions, that possessed no dimen-
sion at all, forms for which time had

ASTOUNDING STORIES

no meaning or existence, and which —
most stupendous of all — were pure
thought, pure consciousness, pure life,
stripped of all physical excrescences.

Wilmot, the one man who could have
explained, who could have duplicated
the phenomena, had not observed. It
was given to a burglar to initiate and a
lawyer to witness the finale, and none
other. For which the universe as we
know it, to the farthest nebula, should
give heartfelt thanks. It was close
enough to destruction as it was, and
Wilmot’s caution could be ill relied on
in the presence of greater and vaster
scientific experiments.

THE NIGHT MAIL was flying
rather high over the Alleghanies. The
passenger, a radio star in a hurry to get
to a big movie contract in Hollywood,
leaned forward toward the cockpit.

“Everything seems lighted up with
green lights,” he said conversationally.
“What’s up — a celebration?”

The pilot heard him perfectly. For
the first time he realized what was
wrong, what had been bothering his sub-
conscious for the past few minutes with-
out his being able to lay a finger on it.

The deathly silence; the absence of
all .sound. The roar of the propeller
was muted to nothingness. They seemed
to be swimming in a motionless sea of
green flame. For a wild moment he
thought they were falling, yet his in-
struments showed motion, and the body
throbljed from a noiseless motor. The
lights, too, bothered him.

He swung half around, anxiously. “I
don’t know just what ”

Orange blasts enveloped them. The
next instant both men felt violently
compressed into themselves. It was the
last sensation they ever had. The plane
and its occupants vanished ; in their
place a tiny, microscopic globule — elec-
trons and protons compacted into a uni-
tary mass — fell with terrific velocity to-

ward the earth, to bore of its own in-
credible weight a mile below the sur-
face.

THE GREAT liner, Ladonia, near-
ing the coast of Europe, was ablaze with
lights and merriment. It was the last
night on board, and a fancy-dress ball
was in progress. The saxophones
moaned and the violins tossed off span-
gles of glittering notes. Fairy princes
danced with Carmencitas and whispered
words into small ears that brought quick
laughter. The huge punch bowl ebbed
and filled with magic rapidity.

The bar was crowded with men,
flushed of face, beefy, righteously scorn-
ful of being togged out like Boy Scouts.
Couples snuggled on steamer chairs near
the lifeboats, oblivious to dance and bar
and sky. A woman strode purposefully
along the deck, peering into the faces
of the bemused couples. Their faces
were green with strange illumination,
yet they did not notice.

The woman, hatchet-face grim with
repressed fury, pursued her tour of in-
vestigation. In the shadow of a life-
boat she spied two dim figures locked in
each other’s arms. Lips were pressed
tightly together.

She bore down on them like a destroy-
ing demon.

The man heard, raised startled eyes.
“Maria!” he gasped. Without another
word he tore out of the arms of his
lovely companion, and fled down the
deck as if all the devils of hell were
after him.

The woman turned on the girl : “You
dirty tramp, you ”

The captain stood on the bridge, legs
astraddle. He stared into the night.
“I’ve never seen an aurora like this be-
fore,” he told the first officer.

“No more have I,” said his sub-
ordinate. “It came up like a blanket.
Look at the moon, too, and the stars.
They’re all green.”

The telephone rang The steersman

THE LIVING EQUATION

said excitedly. “The compass has gone
haywire, sir. And the ship doesn’t re-
spond to the wheel.”

Another telephone jangled — ^the en-
gine room. The shocked voice of the
engineer. “Steam’s gone, sir. And the
fire’s out; the coal lies dead and cold.
Tried to light a match, sir, and the
blamed thing ”

The universe turned orange.

The liner Ladonia tilted, shuddered,
and rose straight into the air. A huge
waterspout followed her.

The captain sprang toward the pilot
house. The ship tilted more, and he
sprawled out into the open; a whirling
tiny figure that rushed up and up, keep-
ing even pace with the soaring liner.

The fleeing man, avoiding the wrath
of an aroused wife, stumbled and cata-
pulted over the rail. He, too, became a
satellite of the ship.

The fancy-dress ball was a confusion
of struggling, screaming, and floating
creatures. The ship accelerated its mad
upward flight; ice formed a quick cur-
tain ; the cold of the stratosphere bit
into the thinly clad bodies of the passen-
gers. Their screams grew more and
more feeble; blue congealment stilled
their struggles.

Then the air rushed out into space
with a great swoosh; the limits of the
atmosphere had been reached. The
frozen bodies developed steely hardness;
those few who were still alive literally
exploded from release of pressure. .

Higher and higher, faster and faster,
the great ship fled, followed by masses
of ocean turned into glittering ice, fol-
lowed by the dead captain and the man
whose wife had caught him in flagrante
delicto. A huge cosmic morgue, with
thousands of dead bodies floating and
bumping within its vast interior, the
liner sped upward and outward, past the
Moon, past Mars, out into the region
of the asteroids.

By that time the universe had settled
back to normal, and the Ladonia became

a new asteroid, swinging around the
Sun in a majestic period of five years
and thirty-four days.

The laws of gravitation had been re-
versed for the particular sector of the
Atlantic Ocean in which the liner had
unfortunately been.

FOR THE NEW mathematical or-
der of things proved positively freak-
ish. Vast portions of the universe were
left wholly untouched; others had only
certain limited modifications in the laws
governing being ; circumscribed areas
received the full impact and vanished
or were irreparably changed.

Wilmot tried to explain it afterward.
“You see,” he told Polger, “my machine
was not quite powerful enough. The
superequations filled with the universe,
it is true, but spottily. Had their in-
fluence been evenly propagated, noth-
ing would have remained, not even space
and time. Then again, the equations
themselves realized before it was too
late ”

THE NEW YORK telephone ex-
change was extremely busy, even though
it was past midnight. Girls said mo-
notonously: “Number, please! Thank
you. I’m ringing them. Sorry, sir, the
line is busy. No, madam ; I don’t know
what is happening.”

All New York had awakened at the
curious green glare that shrouded the
city, blotted the heavens, masked the
normal yellow glow of millions of lights.
All were possessed with the same idea.
This was the weather bureau’s job, for
which good citizens paid taxes. Ask
them about it.

James B. Wales, night editor of the
Clarion, jiggled his phone furiously.
“Listen, sister,” he said hoarsely, “I
got to get the bureau.”

“Sorry, sir, line’s still busy.”

“T’hell with that. I’m the Clarion.
Cut ’em all off and give me a wire. Be

ASTOUNDING STORIES

a good kid ; I’ll take you out to dinner,
and a show.”

The phone went dead. He swore and
pushed black streaming hair out of his
eyes.

“The dirty so and so !” he said in low
earnest accents.

But the girl was not to blame.

For just then the orange wave lashed
out.

Where the gigantic setback cliff of
steel and tan stone had stood was a gap-
ing hole. The Telephone Building was
gone, vanished forever, never to return.
Some topsy-turvy shifting of a mathe-
matical formula in its vicinity had
snatched it, thrown it headlong into a
superdimension. It might have been
right where it had always been, but our
normal dimensions did not contain it.

A year later, when all hope of its re-
turn was abandoned, a new and larger
building was erected on the spot. Yet
Wilmot always had an uncomfortable
feeling that the ghost, the superdimen-
sional ghost of the kidnaped structure,
glared forlornly at and through him
every time he entered its precincts.

For by some strange unaccountable
freak, telephone communication with the
world as it is had not been lost. En-
gineers traced it eventually to a wire
that seemed to taper into nothingness.
A guard was placed around the wire
to prevent accidents. The guard was
maintained for at least a month after
the final message had come through.

Nellie McCafferty was the heroine of
the tragic misadventure, the girl whom
Jimmy Wales had called unmentionable
names. He took every one of them
back, blazoned her name all over his
headlines, raised a whacking big fund
for the relief of the parents whom she
had supported out of her scanty salary.

And no wonder !

For through her he achieved the big-
gest scoop in the history of the news-
paper business. Imagine talking directly
with a girl in another dimension, get-

ting her sensations, the sensations of a
thousand other men and women in that
crazy place; people, who to all intents
and purposes, were dead, vanished.

It was his connection, cut off by the
orange flash, which still functioned.

For days she stuck to her self-ap-
pointed task. They were, she told
Jimmy, in a world of utter blankness.
No light, no sound, no depth, or height,
or width ; nothing but a flat impenetra-
ble grayness. Of course, said Wilmot,
when he heard of it. They were still
three-dimensional people in a three-di-
mensional building. The new dimen-
sions could mean nothing to them.

At first the thousand marooned hu-
mans called frantically for rescue. They
did not understand, did not realize why,
when they tried to leave through open
doors and windows, there was nothing
for them to step into. It was a curious
sensation, which, in spite of faithful ef-
forts to reproduce for the benefit of
the people on Earth, held no meaning.

Then awareness came to them, and
with it fright. Rescue from their predica-
ment was impossible. Though doubtless
as near to their own kind as interpene-
trated bodies could be, they might as
well have been out on Orion’s belt.

For weeks the world hung with
fascinated horror on the slowly unfold-
ing tragedy. Only a thousand lives
were involved, as against the millions
who had died all over the Earth, and the
possible countless billions of forms who
went crashing in debacle throughout the
universe. But here was novelty, gigantic
drama, human interest, everything that
went to make up a perfect play. Ghosts
from beyond our time and space talk-
ing with us daily!

And the Clarion grew fabulously in
circulation, and Jimmy Wales was con-
tent.

Nellie McCafferty told in plain, un-
adorned words the story of their grow-
ing fear, the trapped feeling. Then came
hunger; thirst a little later. The sup-

AST— 1

THE LIVING EQUATION

plies of the company’s cafeteria were
scanty and had to be rationed. Then
came a worse difficulty; the air in the
building was giving out, growing foul
and stale with overuse.

Day by day she communicated ;
slowly, more painfully each day. Then
finally, the phone rang.

Wales lifted it; there was a faint
whisper, a gasp. “Yes, yes, Nellie!’’
he half shouted. He swears, and so
that night’s edition had it, that he heard
her say : “Good-by, people of Earth. I
am the last alive.’’

Then, and this was indubitable fact,
the connection broke, irrevocably. The
superdimension had lost contact.

To Jimmy Wales’ eternal credit be it
stated that he had to wink his eyes
rather violently for a moment; then
once more he was the hard-boiled editor.

“Copy desk ; rewrite man, boy, press-
room !’’ he bellowed. “Stop everything,
take this for the final. Wow, what a
story !’’

THE TEEMING province of Shan-
tung in China disappeared, dissolved as
though it had never been ; land, people,
animals, rivers, thereby bringing to an
abrupt end the plans of outside nations
to gobble up this delectable bit of ter-
ritory.

In its place was a hole, a gigantic in-
credible hole extending over thousands
of square miles of area and descending
in a smooth bottomless pit a trifle less
than a thousand miles into the interior
of the Earth.

Geologists and scientists of all na-
tions, with scarcely a thought for the
millions of unfortunates whose mathe-
matical laws had vanished and with
them tlieir own existence, descended
with loud glee upon this unparalleled
opportunity to see the very bowels of
the Earth bare.

For over a hundred years they w'ere
busy, inventing machines to take them
down where no man had been before,

AST— 2

studying strata, examining specimens,
wrangling, concocting new theories to
fit new facts, living, growing old, bear-
ing a new crop of scientists to take their
places, all in an unprecedented state of
excitement.

LUCKILY sparsely inhabited. North
Australia stood up on end for hundreds
of miles, to remain a fabulous mountain
visible for thousands of miles. The
Pacific rushed into the depression and
formed a new ocean. As a result, the
general level of the Earth’s seas was
lowered, and Atlantis was rediscovered.
It proved to be in the shallows of the
Caribbean Sea. Stately buildings, un-
imaginable artifices of ancient people,
rose, covered with slime and mud.

But there was another more serious
effect of this upending, coupled as it
was with certain other changes in the
structure of the solar system. The deli-
cate balance had been destroyed. The
Earth’s year was cut to three hundred
and thirty-six days, seven hours, two
minutes, and prominent scientists issued
grave warnings. At the present rate, all
other things considered, the year would
become shorter and shorter, and within
fifty million years, Earth and all its
works would fall into the maw of the
Sun.

At first, however, the news had been
very much more alarming. The Sun
and planets of the solar system were
functioning, with slight modifications,
according to former schedule. But the
rest of the universe seemed to have gone
haywire. The background of stars went
round and round in streaking circles of
flame. It was impossible to register the
number of revolutions per day, so fast
did they swing from pole to pole. Not
only that, but the hitherto fixed stars
were actually moving across the face of
the heavens, visibly, shifting whole min-
utes of arc from day to day.

Astronomers turned gray overnight.
Rough calculations showed speeds that

ASTOUNDING STORIES

were absolutely unbelievable — ^trillions
of miles per second. It was impossible ;
it was mad; it was insane! Wilmot
finally hit upon the explanation.

Time had changed for the solar sys-
tem. A new system of coordinate
functions had displaced the old, while
the rest of .the universe had remained
unaffected.

Time had speeded up in the jregion
of the Sun and its planets. A thousand
years of sidereal time had been com-
pressed, for us, into a single instant of
existence. The rest of the universe was
growing old while we still remained in-
fants, so to speak.

This strange state of affairs made no
appreciable difference in our private
concerns, inasmuch as, aside from the
clock of the stars, life seemed to go
at the same pace as before. But it played
the very devil with sidereal astron-
omy. All calculations, all former data,
had to be revised.

NOR WERE these the only profound
disruptions due to the release of sets of
formulae and equations that had no
former counterparts in the universe.
Stars blanked out completely ; others
were discovered after much painful
searching in an entirely different part of
the heavens. Instead of an expanding
space, the nebulae seemed simultane-
ously to have made up their minds to
return to the primeval gigantic atom
from which they had originally emerged.

New life forms appeared suddenly on
earth, strange sentient creatures whose
physical basis was silicon, who neither
breathed nor ate nor seemed to move.
Nor was this inexplicable. The mathe-
matics of evolutionary processes had
shifted, too.

Fortunately they all soon died.

The maddest freak of all, however,
was the simultaneous appearance of
form^fiV respectable material things in
different parts of the world. The Em-
pire State Building, for instance, found

itself in the middle of the Arabian
Desert. Travelers, whose reputation
for unswerving honesty and sobriety
was unimpeachable, reported it there,
solitary and somewhat ashamed. Yet
the Empire State Building still occupied
its accustomed quarters at the comer erf
Thirty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue.
Mount Everest, while still a fixture in
far-off Tibet, also achieved a second
domicile not far from Washington, to
the delight of intrepid mountain
climbers who had not the wherewithal
to make the expensive and arduous jour-
ney to the Himalayas.

Not so pleasant was the predicament
of a poor devil of a bank clerk who
found himself suddenly three people,
wandering the streets of the same city,
meeting himself over and over again, to
his own vast confusion and to the utter
bewilderment of a wife and four chil-
dren who had not followed him in his
metamorphosis. Quite naturally she
raised a to-do about such goings on,
and quite as naturally each of the three
simulacra objected to further support
of a family, who, each argued, refused
whole time conjugal and filial duties.

At last the matter reached the courts
and became a cause celkbre. The case
dragged for seventy-five years. When
a decision was finally reached, all of the
original participants were dead, and the
learned jurist who wrote the closing
opinion labored under the reasonable
misapprehension that it. had something
to do with a remission of taxes on a non-
existent plot of land.

WILMOT slowly became aware of
his surroundings. He was flat on his
back and his side hurt. Polger lay near
him, breathing stertorously. A bit
farther off, eyes closed, and moaning
through clenched teeth, , was the bur-
glar, Bill Sike.

Where was he ? What had happened ?
He opened his eyes. The green light
had gone; in its place was darkness

THE LIVING EQUATION

streaked by curious wheels of fire. Un-
derneath him, too, was damp strange-
ness. He felt weakly with his hands.

Earth and grass and small stones, wet
with dew. He was out on the lawn, in
the open. He sprang to his feet, pan-
icky. How had he been carried out
ot the house? What about his precious
machine — the mathematical life to which
it had given birth?

He strained feverishly. It was his
own lawn, without doubt. There were
the two beech trees in which he took so
much pride ; to the left, as ever, nestled
the little rock pool.

But the house — it was gone! A de-
pression showed where it had stood.

Polger staggered to his feet, eyes
bloodshot, staring. Sike instinctively
started to creep away on hands and
knees.

“No, you don’t,” Wilmof said harshly,
and grabbed him by the collar.

Bill whined. “Please let me go, mis-
ter. I got five orphaned children, an’
I only did it to get ’em some grub.
Please don’t send me t’ jail.”

Wilmot laughed wildly. “Jail? There
are no jails. I want you to tell me ex-
actly what you did.” He shook the
shivering burglar. “Do you hear?”

But as has already been stated. Bill’s
information was not illuminating.

MORNING came on a stricken uni-
verse. Wilmot’s house was definitely
gone. With it the machine, the cause
of the tragic adventure, and also the
mathematical globe of equations.

It was decided to keep quiet about
the machine.

But Wilmot and Polger discussed in-
terminably in the privacy of their own
quarters.

“What,” asked the lawyer for the
hundredth time, “happened to the globu
of equations?”

Finally Wilmot said hesitantly : “It
may only have been a dream, but while
I was unconscious, it seemed to me that
I was aware of certain things happening
in the globe. The configurations, the
pure inherent thoughts, were dissatisfied.
They had conformed parts of this uni-
verse to their own laws and theorems,
but not all. The old laws were in the
main too powerful. There was tremen-
dous conflict.

“It was therefore decided to build a
universe of their own, completely out-
side our time and space, where the jut-
ward habiliments would be the harnnni-
ous counterparts of their equational de-
sires.”

Polger pondered a moment. He rose.
“Thank God I” he said with due delib-
eration.

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The Skylark of Valeron

Part Two of the greatest story of the Skylark
series. Start it now if you missed part one

by Edward E. Smith, Ph. D,

Illustrated by Elliot Bold

UP TO NOW:

Richard Seaton discovers a catalyst,
later called Rovolon, capable of liber-
ating the intra-atomic energy of cop-
per. He atid Martin Crane bldld a
spacb ship, “Skylark of Space,” and plan
a chain of superpower stations to sup-
ply industry with cheap pozver. Brook-
ings, of the World Steel Corporation,
tries to steal the invention. Failing, he
calls in DuQuesne, a thoroughly un-
scrupulous chemist, who raids Seaton’s
laboratory.

DuQuesne builds a space ship front
the stolen plans and abducts Dorothy
Vaneman, Seaton’s fiancee, and Mar-
garet Spencer. In her struggles Doro-
thy turns on full power and, all on board
unconscious, the ship drives through
space until her copper is exhausted.
Seaton and Crane have foUoived Du-
Quesne by means of an “object-com-
pass” focused upon his person, and ef-
fect a rescue.

The three scientists, now working to-
gether, manage to free the “Skylark”
from tht attraction of the Dark Metss,
but their fuel is low. They visit several
planets — one rich in Rovolon, one hav-
ing an atmosphere of gaseous chlorin,
and one materialsed by a group of be-
ings purely intellectual, instead of physi-
cal, in nature.

After various adventures they escape
and fly toward a cluster of green suns.
They land upon Osnome and are of

service to Kondal, a nation of that
world, against Mardonale, its other na-
tion. Dunark, of Osnome, and Seaton,
operating a “mechanical educator,” ac-
cidentally superimpose the entire brain
of each upon that of the other. Seaton,
now overlord of Osnome, marries Doro-
thy and Crane marries Margaret. They
return to Earth, DuQuesne escaping
from the “Skylark” before it lands.

Summoned by Dunark, Seaton and
his friends return to Osnome in “Sky-
lark Two.” On the way they meet and
defeat a war vessel of the Fenachrone, a
quasi-human race of immense scientific
attainments whose goal is universal con-
quest. DuQuesne, bent on destroying
Seaton, rescues a survivor of the war-
ship and agrees to return him to his own
planet in exchange for his help in steal-
ing a Fenachrone battleship. Both are
lying — DuQuesne has no intention of
liberating the prisoner, and' the Fena-
chrone engineer intends to betray the
Terrestrials to his guard ships.

In quest of a science to equal that of
the Fenachrone, Seaton visits first Ur-
vania, a planet then at imr unth Os-
nome; Dasor, a watery planet inhabited
by a race of almbst amphibious human-
ity; and lastly Norlamin, where he finds
the high science of which all humanity
is so in need.

Rovol, First of Rays, and Drasnik,
First of Psychology, each impress upon
Seaton’.s brain a large measure of hi<!

Dorothy, Margaret and Crane donned headsets and seated
themselves in the base of the great projector.

ASTOUNDING STORIES

• 22

own knowledge. They build a fifth-
order projector and destroy all the
Fenachrone vessels in space save one,
7vhich has left this Galaxy entirely and
is out of reach. It is decided that the
planet of the Fenachrone must he de-
stroyed by bombs of atomic copper.
“Skylark Three’’ is built and sets out
after the fleeing ship. Overtaking her
far out in intergalactic space, “Three” is
the victor in a battle of giants.

DuQuesne and Loring, his assistant,
drug their captive Fenachrone engineer
and read his mind. They capture, first
a scout ship and then a first-class bat-
tleship, in which they escape the explo-
sion of the whole Fenachrone planet.
DuQuesne then goes in search of Sea-
ton — “I shall find him if I have to comb
the Galaxy, star by star!”

KYLARK THREE, the mightiest
space ship that had ever lifted her
stupendous mass from any planet
known to the humanity of this, the First
Galaxy, was hurtling onward through
the absolute vacuum of intergalactic
space. Around her there was nothing
— no stars, no suns, no meteorites, no
smallest particle of cosmic dust. The
First Galaxy lay so far behind her that
even its vast lens showed only as a
dimly perceptible point of light in the
visiplates.

The Ffliachrone space chart placed
other Galaxies to right of and to left
of, above and below, the flying cruiser;
but they were so infinitely distant that
their light could scarcely reach the eyes
of the Terrestrial wanderers. Equally
far from them, or farther, but in their
line of flight, lay the distant Galaxy
which was their goal.

So prodigious had been the velocity
of the Skylark, when the last vessel of
the Fenachrone had been destroyed, that
she could not possibly have been halted
until she had covered more than half

the distance separating that Galaxy
from our own; and Seaton and Crane
had agreed that this chance to visit it
was altogether too good to be missed.
Therefore the velocity of their vessel
had been augmented rather than less-
ened, and for uneventful days and
weeks she had bored her terrific way
through the incomprehensible nothing-
ness of the interuniversal void.

After a few days of impatient wait-
ing and of eager anticipation, Seaton
had settled down into the friendly and
companionable routine of the flight.
But inaction palled upon his vigorous
nature and, physical outlet denied, he
began to delve deeper and deeper into
the almost-unknown, scarcely plumbed
recesses of his new mind — a mind stored
with the accumulated knowledge of
thousands of generations of the Rovol
and of the Drasnik ; generations of spe-
cialists in research in two widely sep-
arated fields of knowledge.

Thus it was that one morning Seaton
prowled about aimlessly in brown ab-
straction, hands jammed deep into pock-
ets, the while there rolled from his vil-
lainously reeking pipe blue clouds of
fumes that might have taxed sorely a
less efficient air-purifier than that
boasted by the Skylark; prowled, sud-
denly to dash across the control room
to the immense keyboards of his fifth-
order projector.

There he sat, hour after hour; hands
setting up incredibly complex integrals
upon its inexhaustible supply of keys
and stops; gray eyes staring unseeingly
into infinity; he sat there, deaf, dumb,
and blind to everything except the fas-
cinatingly fathomless problem upon
which he was so diligently at work.

Dinner time came and went, then
supper time, then bedtime ; and Doro-
thy strode purposefully toward the con-
sole, only to be led away, silently and
quietly, by the watchful Crane.

“But he hasn’t come up for air once
to-day, Martin!” she protested, when

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

they were in Crane’s private sitting
room. “And didn’t you tell me your-
self, that time back in Washington, to
make him snap out of it whenever he
started to pull off one of his wild mara-
thon splurges of overwork?’’

“Yes; I did,’’ Crane replied thought-
fully; “but circumstances here and now
are somewhat different from what they
were there and then. I have no idea
of what he is working out, but it is a
problem of such complexity that in one
process he used more than seven hun-
dred factors, and it may well be that if
he were to be interrupted now he could
never recover that particular line of
thought. Then, too, you must remem-
ber that he is now in such excellent
physical condition that he is in no pres-
ent danger. I would say to let him
alone, for a while longer, at least.’’
“All right, Martin, that’s fine ! I
hated to disturb him, really — I would
hate most awfully to derail an impor-
tant train of thought.”

“Yes ; let him concentrate a while,”
urged Margaret. “He hasn’t indulged
in one of those fits for weeks — Rovol
wouldn’t let him. I think it’s a shame,
too, because when he dives in like that
after something he comes up with it
in his teeth — when he really thinks, he
does things. I don’t see how those Nor-
laminians ever got anything done, when
they always did their thinking by the
clock and quit promptly at quitting
time, even if it was right in the mid-
dle of an idea.”

“Dick can do more in an hour, the
way he is working now, than Rovol of
Rays could ever do in ten years !” Doro-
thy exclaimed with conviction. “I’m
going in to keep him company — he’s
more apt to be disturbed by my being
gone than by having me there. Better
come along, too, you two, just as though
nothing was going on. We’ll give him
an hour or so yet, anyway.”

The trio then strolled back into the
control room.

But Seaton finished his computations
without interruption. Some time after
midnight he transferred his integrated
and assembled forces to an anchoring
plunger, arose from his irksome chair,
stretched mightily, and turned to the
others, tired but triumphant.

“Folks, I think I’ve got something!”
he cried. “Kinda late, but it’ll take only
a couple of minutes to test it out. I’ll
put these nets over your heads, and then
you all look into that viewing cabinet
over there.”

OVER his own head and shoulders
Seaton draped a finely woven screen of
silvery metal, connected by a stranded
cable to a plug in his board ; and after
he had similarly invested his compan-
ions he began to manipulate dials and
knobs.

As he did so the dark space of the
cabinet became filled with a soft glow
of light — a glow which resolved itself
into color and form, a three-dimensional
picture. In the background towered a
snow-capped, beautifully symmetrical
volcanic mountain ; in the foreground
were to be seen cherry trees in full
bloom surrounding a small structure of
unmistakable architecture; and through
their minds swept fleeting flashes of
poignant longing, amounting almost to
nostalgia.

“Good heavens, Dick, what have you
done now ?” Dorothy broke out. “I feel
so homesick that I want to cry — and
I don’t care a bit whether I ever see
Japan again or not!”

“These nets aren’t perfect insulators,
of course, even though I’ve got them
grounded. There’s some leakage.
They’d have to be solid to stop all radia-
tion. Leaks both ways, of course, so
we’re interfering with the picture a lit-
tle, too; but there’s some outside inter-
ference that I can’t discover yet.”

Seaton thought aloud, rather than ex-
plained, as he shut off the power.

“Folks, we have got something!

ASTOUNDING STORIES

That’s the sixth-order pattern, and
thought is in that level ! Those were
thoughts — Shiro’s thoughts.”

“But he’s asleep, surely, by this
time,” Dorothy protested.

“Sure he is, or he wouldn’t be think-
ing that kind of thoughts. It’s his sub-
conscious — he’s contented enough when
he’s awake.”

“How did you work it out?” asked
Crane. “You said, yourself, that it
might well take lifetimes of research.”
“It would, ordinarily. Partly a hunch,
partly dumb luck, but mostly a com-
bination of two brains that upon Nor-
lamin would ordinarily never touch the
same subject anywhere. Rovol, who
knows everj-thing there is to be known
a!)out rays, and Drasnik, probably the
greatest authority upon the mind that
ever lived, both gave me ^ good share
of their knowledge; and the combina-
tion turned out to be hot stuff, particu-
larly in connection with this fifth-order
keyboard. Now we can really do some-
thing !”

“But you had a sixth-order detector
before,” Margaret put in. “Why didn’t
we touch it off by thinking?”

“Too coarse — I see that. now. It
wouldn’t react to the extremely slight
power of a thought- wave ; only to the
powerful impulses from a bar or from
cosmic radiation. But I can build one
now that will react to thought, and I’m
going to; particularly since there was a
little interference on that picture that I
couldn’t quite account for.” He turned
back to the projector.

“You’re coming to bed,” declared
Dorothy with finality. “You’ve done
enough for one day.”

She had her way, but early the next
morning Seaton was again at the key-
board. wearing a complex headset and
driving a tenuous fabric of force far
out into the void. After an hour or so
he ten.sed suddenly, every sense concen-
trated upon something vaguely percepti-
ble; .something which became less and

less nebulous as his steady fingers ro-
tated micrometric dials in infinitesimal
arcs.

“Come get a load of this, folks !” he
called at last. “Mart, what would a
planet — an inhabited planet, at that — ^be
doing ’way out here. Heaven only knows
how many light-centuries away from the
nearest Galaxy?”

THE THREE donned headsets and
seated themselves in their chairs in the
base of the great projector. Instantly
they felt projections of themselves
hurled an incomprehensible distance out
into empty space. But that weird sen-
sation was not new ; each was thor-
oughly accustomed to the feeling of
duality incident to being in the Skylark
in body, yet with a duplicate mentality
carried by the projection to a point
many light-years distant from his cor-
poreal substance. Their mentalities,
thus projected, felt a fleeting instant
of unthinkable velocity, then hung
poised above the surface of a small but
dense planet, a planet utterly alone in
that dreadful void.

But it was like no other planet with
which the Terrestrial wanderers were
familiar. It possessed neither air nor
water, and it was entirely devoid of
topographical features. It was merely
a bare, mountainless, depthless sphere
of rock and metal. Though sunless, it
was not dark; it glowed with a strong,
white light which emanated from the
rocky soil itself. Nothing animate was
visible, nor was there a sign that any
form of life, animal or vegetable, had
ever existed there.

“You can talk if you want to,” Sea-
ton observed, noticing that Dorothy was
holding back by main strength a tor-
rent of words. “They can’t hear us —
there’s no audio in the circuit.”.

“What do you mean by ‘they,’ Dick ?”
she demanded. “You said it was an
inhabited planet. That one isn’t in-

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

habited. It never was, and it can’t pos-
sibly be, ever!”

“When I spoke I thought that it was
inhabited, in the ordinary sense of the
word, but I see now that it isn’t,” he
replied, quietly and thoughtfully. “But
they were there a minute ago, and they’ll
probably be back. Don’t kid yourself.
Dimples. It’s inhabited, all right, and
by somebody we don’t know much — or
rather, by something that we knew once
' — altogether too well.”

“The pure intellectuals,” Crane stated,
rather than asked.

“Yes ; and that accounts for the im-
possible location of the planet, too.
They probably materialized it out there,
just for the exercise. There, they’re
coming back. Feel ’em?”

Vivid thoughts, for the most part in-
comprehensible, flashed from the head-
sets into their minds ; and instantly the
surroundings of their projections
changed. With the speed of thought a
building materialized upon that barren
ground, and they found themselves
looking into a brilliantly lighted and
spacious hall. Walls of alabaster, giv-
ing forth a living, almost a fluid light.
Tapestries, whose fantastically intricate
designs changed from moment to mo-
ment into ever new and ever more
amazingly complex delineations. Gem-
studded fountains, whose plumes and
gorgeous sprays of dancing liquid
obeyed no Earthly laws of mechanics.
Chairs and benches, writhing, changing
in form constantly and with no under-
standable rhythm. And in that hall
were the intellectuals — ^the entities who
had materialized those objects from the
ultimately elemental radiant energy of
intergalactic space.

Their number could not even be
guessed. Sometimes only one was visi-
l)le. sometimes it seemed that the great
hall was crowded with them — ever-
changing shapes varying in texture from
the tenuousness of a wraith to a density

greater than that of any Earthly metal.

So bewilderingly rapid were the
changes in form that no one appearance
could be intelligently grasped. Before
one outlandish and unearthly shape
could really be perceived it had van-
ished — had melted and flowed into one
entirely different in form and in sense,
but one equally monstrous to Terres-
trial eyes. Even if grasped mentally,
no one of those grotesque shapes could
have been described in language, so ut-
terly foreign were they to all human
knowledge, history, and experience.

And now, the sixth-order projections
in perfect synchronism, the thoughts of
the Outlanders came clearly into the
minds of the four watchers— thoughts
cold, hard, and clear, diamondlike in
polish and in definition; thoughts with
the perfection of finish and detail pos-
sible only to the fleshless mentalities
who for countless millions of years had
done little save perfect themselves in
the technique of pure and absolute
thinking.

The four sat tense and strained as
the awful import of those thoughts
struck home ; then, at another thought
of horribly unmistakable meaning, Sea-
ton snapped off his power and drove
lightning fingers over his keyboard,
while the two women slumperl back,
white-faced and trembling, into their
seats.

“I thought it was funny, back there
that time, that that fellow couldn’t in-
tegrate in the ninety-seven dimensions
necessary to dematerialize us, and I
didn’t know anything then.” Seaton,
his preparations complete, leaned back
in his operator’s seat at the console.
“He was just kidding u,s — playing with
us. just to see what we’d do, and as
for not being able to think his way back
— phooie ! He can think his way

through ninety-seven universes if he
wants to. They’re certainly extraga-
lactic. and very probably extrauniversal,
and the one that played with us could

ASTOUNDING STORIES

have dematerialized us instantly if he
had felt like it.”

“That is apparent, now,” Crane con-
ceded. “They are quite evidently pat-
terns of sixth-order forces, and as such
have a velocity of anything they want
to use. They absorb force from the
radiations in free space, and are capable
of diverting and of utilizing those
forces in any fashion they may choose.
They would of course be eternal, and,
so far as I can see, they would be in-
destructible. What are we going to do
about it, Dick? What can we do about
it?”

“We’ll do something!” Seaton grit-
ted. “We’re not as helpless as they
think we are. I’ve got out five courses
of six-ply screen, with full interliners
of zones of force. I’ve got everything
blocked, clear down to the sixth order.
If they can think their way through
those screens they’re better than I think
they are, and if they try anything else
we’ll do our darnedest to block that,
too — and with this Norlaminian key-
board and all the uranium we’ve got
that’ll be a mighty lot, believe me !
After that last crack of theirs they’ll
hunt for us, of course, and I’m pretty
sure they’ll find us. I thought so — here
they are ! Materialization, huh ? I told
him once that if he’d stick to matter
that I could understand. I’d give him
a run for his money, and I wasn’t kid-
ding him, either.”

VI.

FAR OUT in the depths of the inter-
galactic void there sped along upon its
strange course the newly materialized
planet of the intellectuals. Desolate and
barren it was, and apparently destitute
of life; but life was there — eternal, dis-
embodied life, unaffected by any pos-
sible extreme of heat or cold, requir-
ing for its continuance neither water
nor air, nor, for that matter, any ma-
terial substance whatsoever. And from

somewhere in the vacuum above that
planet’s forbidding surface there ema-
nated a thought — a thought coldly clear,
abysmally hopeless.

“I have but one remaining aim in this
life. While I have failed again, as I
have failed innumerable times in the
past, I shall keep on trying until I suc-
ceed in assembling in sufficient strength
the exact forces necessary to disrupt
this sixth-order pattern which is I.”
“You speak foolishly. Eight, as does
each of us now and again,” came in-
stant response. “There is much more
to see, much more to do, much more to
learn. Why be discouraged or dis-
heartened? An infinity of time is nec-
essary in which to explore infinite space
and to acquire infinite knowledge.”
“Foolish I may be, but this is no sim-
ple recurrent outburst of melancholia.
I am definitely weary of this cycle of
existence, and I wish to pass on to the
next, whatever of experience or of sheer
oblivion it may bring. In fact, I wish
that you. One, had never worked out
the particular pattern of forces that lib-
erated our eleven minds from the so-
called shackles of our material bodies.
For we cannot die. We are simply pat-
terns of force eternal, marking the pas-
sage of time only by the life cycles of
the suns of the Galaxies.

“Why, I envy even the creatures in-
habiting the planets throughout the Gal-
axy we visited but a moment ago. Par-
tially intelligent though they are, strug-
gling and groping, each individual dying
after only a fleeting instant of life ; born,
growing old, and passing on in a minute
fraction of a millionth of one cycle —
yet I envy even them.”

“That was the reason you did not
dematerialize those you accompanied
briefly while they were flitting about in
their crude space ship?”

“Yes. Being alive for such an in-
finitesimal period of time, they value
life highly. Why hurry them into the
future that js so soon to be theirs?”

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

“Do not dwell upon such thoughts,
Eight,” advised One. “They lead only
to greater and greater depths of de-
spondency. Consider instead what we
have done and what we shall do.”

“I ^>ave considered everything, at
length,” the entity known as Eight
thought back stubbornly. “What benefit
or satisfaction do we get out of this
continuous sojourn in the cycle of ex-
istence from which we should have de-
parted aeons ago? We have power, it
is true, but what of it? It is barren.
We create for ourselves bodies and their
material surroundings, like this” — the
great hall came into being, and so vast
was the mentality creating it that the
flow of thought continued without a
break — “but what of it? We do not
enjoy them as lesser beings enjoy the
bodies which to them are synonymous
with life.

“We have traveled endlessly, we have
seen much, we have studied much; but
what of it? Fundamentally we have
accomplished nothing and we know
nothing. We know but little more than
we knew countless thousands of cycles
ago, when our home planet was still
substance. We know nothing of time;
we know nothing of space; we know
nothing even of the fourth dimension
save that the three oj us who rotated
themselves into it have never returned.
And until one of us succeeds in build-
ing a neutralizing pattern we can never
die — we must face a drab and cheerless
eternity of existence as we now are.”

“An eternity, yes, but an eternity nei-
ther drab nor cheerless. We know but
little, as you have said, but in that fact
lies a stimulus ; we can and shall go
on forever, learning more and ever
more. Think of it! But hold — ^what
is that? I feM a foreign thought. It
must emanate from a mind powerful
indeed to have come so far.”

“I have felt them. There are four
foreign minds, but they are unimpor-
tant.”

“Have you analyzed them?”

“Yes. They are the people of the
space ship which we just mentioned;
projecting their mentalities to us here.”

“Projecting mentalities? Such a low
fonn of life? They must have learned
much from you. Eight.”

“Perhaps I did give them one or two
hints,” Eight returned, utterly indiffer-
ent, “but they are of no importance
to us.”

“I am not so sure of that.” One
mused. “We found no others in that
Galaxy capable of so projecting them-
selves, nor did we find any beings pos-
sessing minds sufficiently strong to be
capable of existence without the sup-
port of a material body. It may be that
they are sufficiently advanced to join
us. Even if they are not, if their minds
should prove too weak for our com-
pany, they are undoubtedly strong
enough to be of use in one of my re-
searches.”

AT THIS point Seaton cut off the
projections and began to muster his
sixth-order defenses, therefore he did
not “hear” Eight’s outburst against the
proposal of his leader.

“I will not allow it. One I” the dis-
embodied intelligence protested in-
tensely. “Rather than have you inflict
upon them the eternity of life that we
have suffered I shall myself deinaterial-
ize them. Much as they love life, it
would be infinitely better for them to
spare a few minutes of it than to live
forever.”

But there was no reply. One had
vanished ; had darted at utmost speed
toward the Skylark. Eight followed
him instantly. Light-centuries of dis-
tance meant no more to them than to
Seaton’s own projector, and they soon
reached the hurtling space ship ; a space
ship moving with all its unthinkable
velocity, yet to them motionless — what
is velocity when there are no reference
points by which to measure it?

ASTOUNDING STORIES

“Back, Eight!’’ commanded One ab-
ruptly. “They are inclosed in a nulli-
fying wall of the sixth order. They are
indeed advanced in mentality.’’

“A complete stasis in the subether?’’
Eight marveled. “That will do as well

as the pattern ”

“Greetings, j strangers I” Seaton’s
thought interrupted. Thoughts as clear
as those require no interpretation of
language. “My projection is here, out-
side the wall, but I might caution you
that one touch of your patterns will cut
it off and stiffen that wall to absolute
impenetrability. I assume that your

visit is friendly?’’

“Eminently so,’’ replied One. “I

offer you the opportunity of joining us ;
or, at least, the opportunity of being of
assistance to science in the attempt at
joining us.’’

“They want us to join them as pure
intellectuals, folks.’’ Seaton turned
from the projector, toward his friends.
“How about it, Dottie? We’ve got
quite a few things to do yet in the flesh,
haven’t we?’’

“I’ll say we have, Dickie — don’t be
an idiot!” She chuckled.

“Sorry, One !” Seaton thought again
into space. “Your invitation is appre-
ciated to the full, and we thank you
for it, but we have too many things to
do in our own lives and upon our own
world to accept it at this time. Later
on, perhaps, we could do so with profit.”

“You will accept it now,” One de-
clared coldly. “Do you imagine that
your puny wills can withstand mine for
a single instant?”

“I don’t know; but, aided by certain
mechanical devices of ours, I do know
that they’ll do a terrific job of trying!”
Seaton blazed back.

“There is one thing that I believe you
can do,” Eight put in. “Your barrier
wall should be able to free me from
this intolerable condition of eternal
life!” And he hurled himself forward

with all his prodigious force against that
nullifying wall.

Instantly the screen flamed into in-
candescence; converters and generators
whined and shrieked as hundreds of
pounds of power uranium disappeared
under that awful load. But the screens
held, and in an instant it was over.
Eight was gone, disrupted into the fu-
ture life for which he had so longed,
and the impregnable wall was once
more merely a tenuous veil of sixth-or-
der vibrations. Through that veil Sea-
ton’s projection crept warily ; but the
inhuman, monstrous mentality poised
just beyond it made no demonstration.

“Eight committed suicide, as he has
so often tried to do,” One commented
coldly, “but, after all, his loss will be
felt with relief, if at all. His dissatis-
faction was an actual impediment to the
advancement of our entire group. And
now, feeble intellect, I will let you
know what is in store for you, before
I direct against you forces which will
render your screens inoperative and
therefore make further interchange of
thought impossible. You shall be de-
materialized ; and, whether your minds
are strong enough to exist in the free
state, your entities shall be of some
small assistance to me before you pass
on to the next cycle of existence. What
substance do you disintegrate for
power?”

“That is none of your business, and
since you cannot drive a ray through
this screen you will never find out!”
Seaton snapped.

“It matters little,” One rejoined, un-
moved. “Were you employing pure
neutronium and were your vessel en-
tirely filled with it, yet in a short time
it would be exhausted. For, know you,
I have summoned the other members
of our group. We are able to direct
cosmic forces which, although not in-
finite in magnitude, are to all intents
and purposes inexhaustible. In a brief

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

time your power will be gone, and I
shall then confer with you again.”

THE OTHER mentalities flashed up
in response to the call of their leader,
and at his direction arranged themselves
all about the far-flung outer screen of
the Skylark. Then from all space, di-
rected inward, there converged upon
the space ship gigantic streamers of
force. Invisible streamers, and im-
palpable. but under their fierce impacts
the defensive screens of the Terrestrial
vessel flared into even more frenzied
displays of pyrotechnic incandescence
than they had exhibited under the heav-
iest beams of the superdreadnought of
the Fenachrone. For thousands of
miles space became filled with corus-
cantly luminous discharges as the ura-
inum-driven screens of the Skylark dis-
sipated the awful force of the attack.

‘‘I don't see how they can keep that
up for very long.” Seaton frowned as
he read his meters and saw at what an
appalling rate their store of metal was
decreasing. “But he talked as though
he knew his stuff. I wonder if — um —
um ” He fell silent, thinking in-

tensely, while the others watched his
face in strained attention ; then went on :
“Uh-huh, I see— he can do it — he
wasn’t kidding us.”

“How?” asked Crane tensely.

“But how can he, possibly, Dick?”
cried Dorothy. “Why, they aren’t any-
thing, really !”

“They can’t store up power in them-
selves, of course, but we know that all
space is pervaded by radiation — theo-
retically a source of power that out-
classes us as much as we outclass mule
I'.ower. Nobody that I know of ever
tapped it before, and I can’t tap it yet;
but they’ve tapped it and can direct it.
The directing is easy enough to under-
stand — just like a kid shooting a high-
power rifle. He doesn’t have to fur-
nish energy for the bullet, you know —

he merely touches off the powder and
tells the bullet where to go.

“But we’re not quite sunk yet. T see
one chance; and even though it’s pretty
slim, I’d take it before I would knuckle
down to his nibs out there. Eight said
something a while ago, remember, about
‘rotating’ into the fourth dimension?
I’ve been mulling the idea around in
my mind. I’d say that as a last resort
we might give it a whirl and take a
chance on coming through. See any-
thing else that looks at all feasible.
Mart?”

“Not at the present moment,” Crane
replied calmly. “How much time have
we?”

“About forty hours at the present
rate of dissipation. It’s constant, so
they’ve probably focused everything
they can bring to bear on us.”

“You cannot attack them in any way?
Apparently the sixth-order zone of
force kills them?”

“Not a chance. If I open a slit one
kilocycle wide anywhere in the band
they’ll find it instantly and it’ll be cur-
tains for us. And even if I could figbt
them off and work through that slit I
couldn’t drive a zone into them — their
velocity is the same as that of the zone,
you know, and they’d simply bounce
back with it. If I could pen them up
into a spherical — um — um — no use,
can’t do it with this equipment. If we
had Rovol and Ca.slor and a few others
of the Firsts of Norlamin here, and had
a month or so of time, maybe we could
work out something, but I couldn't even
start it alone in the time we’ve got.”

“But even if we decide to try the
fourth dimension, how could you do it ?
Surely that dimension is merely a
mathematical concept, with no actual
existence in nature?”

“No; it’s actual enough, I think —
nature’s a big field, you know, and con-
tains a lot of unexplored territory. Re-
member how casually that Eight thing
out there discussed it? It isn’t how to

ASTOUNDING STORIES

“I welcome you to Norlamin, Terrestrials,” spoke the projection.
“7 suppose that you are close friends of Seaton and Crane, and that
you come to learn why they have not communicated with you?"

get there that’s biting me ; it’s only that
those intellectuals can stand a lot more
grief than we can, and conditions in the
region of the fourth dimension prob-
ably wouldn’t suit us any too well.

“However, we wouldn’t have to be
there for more than a hundred thou-
sandth of a second to dodge this gang,
and we could stand almost anything

that long, I imagine. As to how to do
it — rotation. Three pairs of rotating,
high-amperage currents, at mutual right
angles, converging upon a point. Re-
membering that any rotating current
exerts its force at a right angle, what
would happen?’’

“It might, at that,’’ Crane conceded,
after minutes of narrow-eyed concen-

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

Self-contained as DuQuesne was, this statement almost took his
breath away, squaring almost perfectly as it did with the tale he
had so carefully prepared.

tration ; then, Crane-wise, began to mus-
ter objections. “But it would not so
affect this vessel. She is altogether too

large, is of the wrong shape, and ”

“And you can’t pull yourself up by
your own boot straps,” Seaton inter-
rupted. “Right — you’ve got to have

something to work from, something to
anchor your forces to. We’d make the

trip in little old Skylark Two. She’s
small, she’s spherical, and she has so
little mass compared to Three that ro-
tating her out of space would be a lead-
pipe cinch — it wouldn’t even shift
Three’s reference planes.”

“It might prove successful,” Crane
admitted at last, “and, if so, it could
not help but be a very interesting and

ASTOUNDING STORIES

highly informative experience. How-
ever, the chance of success seems to be
none too great, as you have said, and
we must exhaust every other possibility
before we decide to attempt it.”

FOR HOURS then the two scien-
tists went over every detail of their situ-
ation, but could evolve no other plan
which held out even the slightest gleam
of hope for a successful outcome; and
Seaton seated himself before the
banked and tiered keyboards of his pro-
jector.

There he worked for perhaps half an
hour, then called to Crane: “I’ve got

everything set to spin Two out to where
we’re going. Mart. Now if you and
Shiro” — for Crane’s former “man” and
the Skylark’s factotum was now quite
as thoroughly familiar with Norlamin-
ian forces as he had formerly been with
Terrestrial tools — “will put some forces
onto the job of getting her ready for
anything you think we may meet up
with, I’ll put in the rest of the time
trying to figure out a way of taking a
good stiff poke at those jaspers out
there.”

He knew that the zones of force sur-
rounding his vessel were absolutely im-
penetrable to any wave propagated
through the ether, and to any possible
form of material substance. He knew
also that the subether was blocked,
through the fifth and sixth orders. He
knew that it was hopeless to attempt to
solve the problem of the seventh order
in the time at his disposal.

If he were to open any of his zones,
even for an instant, in order to launch
a direct attack, he knew that the im-
mense mentalities to which he was op-
posed would perceive the opening and
through it would wreak the Terrestrials’
dematerialization before he could send
out a single beam.

Last and worst, he knew that not
even his vast console afforded any com-
bination of forces which could possi-

bly destroy the besieging intellectuals.
What could he do?

For hours he labored with all the
power of his wonderful brain, now
stored with all the accumulated knowl-
edge of thousands upon thousands of
years of Norlaminian research. He
stopped occasionally to eat, and once,
at his wife’s insistence, he snatched a
little troubled and uneasy sleep ; but his
mind drove him back to his board and
at that board he worked. Worked —
while the hands of the chronometer ap-
proached more and ever more nearly
the zero hour. Worked — while the
Skylark’s immense stores of uranium
dwindled visibly away in the giving up
of their inconceivable amounts of intra-
atomic energy to brace the screens
which were dissipating the inexhaustible
flood of cosmic force being directed
against them. Worked — in vain. At
last he glanced at the chronometer and
stood up. “Twenty minutes now — ^time
to go,” he announced. “Dot, come here
a minute!”

“Sweetheart!” Tall though Dorothy
was, the top of her auburn head came
scarcely higher than Seaton’s chin.
Tightly but tenderly held in his mighty
arms she tipped her head back, and her
violet eyes held no trace of fear as they
met his. “It’s all right, lover. I don’t
know whether it’s because I think we’re
going to get away, or because we’re to-
gether; but I’m not the lea.st bit afraid
of whatever it is that’s going to happen
to us.”

“Neither am I, dear. Some way, I
simply can’t believe that we’re passing
out; I’ve got a hunch that we’re going
to come through. We’ve got a lot to
live for yet, you and I, together. But
I want to tell you what you already
know — ^that, whatever happens, I love
you.”

“Hurry it up, Seatons !”

Margaret’s voice recalled them to re-
ality, and all five were wafted upon
beams of force into the spherical launch-

AST— 2

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

ing space of the craft in which they
were to venture into the unknown.

That vessel was Skylark Two, the
forty-foot globe of arenak which from
Earth to Norlamin had served them so
well and which had been carried, life-
boatlike, well inside the two-mile-long
torpedo which was Skylark Three. The
massive doors were clamped and sealed,
and the five human beings strapped
themselves into their seats against they
knew not what emergency.

“All ready, folks?” Seaton grasped
the ebonite handle of his master switch.
“I’m not going to tell you Cranes
good-by. Mart — ^you know my hunch.
You got one, too?”

“I cannot say that I have. However,
I have always had a great deal of con-
fidence in your ability. Then, too, I
have always been something of a fatal-
ist : and, most important of all, like you
and Dorothy, Margaret and I are to-
gether. You may start any time now,
Dick.”

“All right — hang on. On your
marks ! Get set ! Go !”

As the master switch was thrown a
set of gigantic plungers drove home,
actuating the tremendous generators in
the holds of the massive cruiser of space
above and around them ; generators
whieh, bursting into instantaneous and
furious activity, directed upon the
spherical hull of their vessel three op-
posed pairs of currents of electricity;
madly spinning currents, of a potential
and of a density never before brought
into being by human devices.

VII.

DuQUESNE DID NOT find Sea-
ton, nor did he quite comb the Galaxy
star by star, as he had declared that he
would do in that event. He did, how-
ever, try; he prolonged the vain search
to distances of so many light-years and
through so many weeks of time that

AST— 3

even the usually complacent Coring was
moved to protest.

“Pretty much like hunting the pro-
A'erbial needle in the haystack, isn’t it,
chief?” that worthy asked at last.
“They could be clear back home by this
time, whoever they are. It looks as
though maybe we could do ourselves
more good by doing something else.”

“Yes; I probably am wasting time
now, but I hate to give it up,” the sci-
entist replied. “We have pretty well
covered this section of the Galaxy. I
wonder if it really was Seaton, after
all? If he could blow up that planet
through those screens he must have a
lot more stuff than I have ever thought
possible — certainly a lot more than I
have, even now — and I would like very
much to know how he did it. I
couldn’t have done it, nor could the
Fenachrone, and if he did it without
eoming closer to it than a thousand
light-years ”

“He may have been a lot closer than
that,” Coring interrupted. “He has had
lots of time to make his get-away, you
know.”

“Not so much as you think, unless
he has an acceleration of the same order
of magnitude as ours, which I doubt,”
DuQuesne countered. “Although it is
of course possible, in the light of what
we know must have happened, that he
may have an acceleration as large as
ours, or even larger. But the most vital
question now is, where did he get his
dope? We’ll have to consider the prob-
abilities and make our own plans ac-
cordingly.”

“All right ! That’s your dish — you’re
the doctor.”

“We shall have to assume that it was
Seaton who did it, because if it was any
one else, we have nothing whatever to
work on. Assuming Seaton, we have
four very definite leads. Our first lead
is that it must have been Seaton in the
Skylark and Dunark in the Kondal that
destroyed the Fenachrone ship from the

ASTOUNDING STORIES

wreck of which he rescued the engi-
neer. I couldn’t learn an}d:hing about
the actual battle from his brains, since
he didn’t know much except that it was
a zone of force that did the real dam-
age, and that the two strange ships
were small and spherical.

“The Skylark and the Kondal answer
that description and, while the evidence
is far from conclusive, we shall assume
as a working hypothesis that the Skylark
and the Kondal did in fact attack and
cut up a Fenachrone battleship fully
as powerful as the one we are now in.
That, as I do not have to tell you, is
a disquieting thought.

“If it is true, however, Seaton must
have left the Earth shortly after we did.
That idea squares up, because he could
very well have had an object-compass
on me — whose tracer, by the way, would
have been cut by the Fenachrone
screens, so we needn’t worry about it,
even if he did have it once.

“Our second lead lies in the fact that
he must have got the dope on the zone
of force sometime between the time
when we left the Earth and the time
when he cut up the battleship. He
either worked it out himself on Earth,
got it en route, or else got it on Osnome,
or at least somewhere in the Green Sys-
tem. If my theory is correct, he
worked it out by himself, before he left
the Earth. He certainly did not get it
on Osnome, because they did not
have it.

“The third lead is the shortness of
the period of time that elapsed between
his battle with the Fenachrone warship
and the destruction of their planet.

“The fourth lead is the great ad-
vancement in ability shown ; going as
he did from the use of a zone of force
as an offensive weapon, up to the use
of some weapon as yet unknown to us
that works through defensive screens
fully as powerful as any possible zone
of force.

“Now, from the above hypotheses, we

are justified in concluding that Seaton
succeeded in enlisting the help of some
ultrajx)werful allies in the Green Sys-
tem, on some planet other than Os-
nome ”

“Why? I don’t quite follow you
there,” put in Loring.

“He didn’t have this new stuff, what-
ever it is, when he met the battleship,
or he would have used it instead of
the dangerous, almost hand-to-hand
fighting entailed by the use of a zone
of force,” DuQuesne declared flatly.
“Therefore he got it some time after
that, but before the big explosion; and
you can take it from me that no one
man worked out a thing that big in
such a short space of time. It can’t
be done. He had help, and high-class
help at that.

“The time factor is also an argument
in favor of the idea that he got it some-
where in the Green System — he didn’t
have time to go anywhere else. Also,
the logical thing for him to do would
be to explore the Green System first,
since it has a very large number of
planets, many of which undoubtedly are
inhabited by highly advanced races.
Does that make it clearer?”

“I’ve got it straight so far,” assented
the aid.

“WE MUST plan our course of ac-
tion in detail before we leave this spot,”
DuQuesne decided. “Then we will be
ready to start back for the Green Sys-
tem, to find out who Seaton’s friends
were and to persuade them to give us
all the dope they gave him. Now pin
your ears back and listen to this, every
word of it.

“We are not nearly as ready nor as
well equipped as I thought we were —
Seaton is about three laps ahead of
us yet. Also, there is a lot more to
psychology than I ever thought there
was before I read those brains back
there. Both of us had better get in
training mentally to meet Seaton’s

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

friends, whoever they may be, or else
we probably will not be able to get away
with a thing.

“Both of us, you especially, want to
clear our minds of every thought inimi-
cal to Seaton in any way or in even the
slightest degree. You and I are, and
always have been, two of the best
friends Seaton ever had on Earth — or
anywhere else, for that matter. And
of course I cannot be Marc DuQuesne,
for reasons that are self-evident. From
now on I am Stewart Vaneman, Doro-
thy’s brother No; forget all that

— too dangerous. They may know all
about Seaton’s friends and Mrs. Sea-
ton’s family. Our best line is to be
humble cogs in Seaton’s great machine.
We worship him from afar as the
world’s greatest hero, but we are not
of sufficient importance for him to know
personally.’’

“Isn’t that carrying caution to ex-
tremes ?’’

“It is not. The only thing that we
are certain of concerning these postu-
lated beings is that they know im-
mensely more than we do; therefore
our story cannot have even the slight-
est flaw in it — it must be bottle-tight.
So I will be Stewart Donovan — fortu-
nately I haven’t my name, initials, or
monogram on anything I own — and I
am one of the engineers of the Seaton-
Crane Co., working on the power-plant
installation.

“Seaton may have given them a men-
tal picture of DuQuesne, but I will grow
a mustache and beard, and with this
story they will never think of connect-
ing Donovan with DuQuesne. You can
keep your own name, since neither Sea-
ton nor any of his crowd ever saw or
heard of you. You are also an engineer
— my technical assistant at the works —
and my buddy. .

“We struck some highly technical .
stuff that nobody but Seaton could han-
dle, and nobody had heard an)rthing
from him for a long time, so we came

out to hunt him up and ask him some
questions. You and I came together
because we are just like Damon and
Pythias. That story will hold water, I
believe — do you see any flaws in it?’’
“Perhaps not flaws, but one or two
things you forgot to mention. How
about this ship? I suppose you could
call her an improved model, but sup-
pose they are familiar with Fenachrone
space-ship construction ?’’

“We shall not be in this ship. If,
as we are assuming, Seaton and his new
friends were the star actors in the late
drama, those friends certainly have
mentalities and apparatus of high cali-
ber and they would equally certainly
recognize this vessel. I had that in
mind when I shoved the Violet off.’’
“Then you will have the Violet to
explain — an Osnomian ship. However,
the company could have imported a few
of them, for runabout work, since Sea-
ton left. It would be quicker than
building them, at that, since they al-
ready have all the special tools and stuff
on Osnome.’’

“You’re getting the idea. Anything
else?’’

“All this is built around the suppo-
sition that he will not be there when
we arrive. Suppose he is there?’’

“TTie chances are a thousand to one
that he will be gone somewhere, ex-
ploring — he never did like fo stick
around in any one place. And even in
the remote possibility that he should be
on the planet, he certainly will not be
at the dock when we land, so the story
is still good. If he should be there, we
shall simply have to arrange matters
so that our meeting him face to face is
delayed until after we have got what
we want; that’s all.”

“All right; I’ve got it down solid.”
“Be sure that you have. Above all,
remember the mental attitude toward
Seaton — hero worship. He is not only
the greatest man that Earth ever pro-
duced ; he is the king-pin of the entire

ASTOUNDING STORIES

Galaxy, and we rate him just a hair
below the Almighty. Think that thought
with every cell of your brain. Concen-
trate on it with all your mind. Feel
it — act it — really Ijelieve it until I tell
you to quit.”

“I’ll do that. Now what?”

“Now we hunt up the Violet, trans-
fer to her, and set this cruiser adrift
on a course toward Earth. And while
I think of it, we want to be sure not
to use any more power than the Sky-
lark could, anywhere near the Green
System, and cover up anything that
looks peculiar al)Out the power plant.
We’re not supposed to know anything
about the five-light drive of the Fena-
chrone, you know.”

“But suppose that you can't find the
Violet, or that she has been destroyed?”

“In that case we’ll go to Osnome and
steal another one just like her. But I’ll
find her — I know her exact course and
velocity, we have ultrarange detectors,
and her automatic instruments and ma-
chinery make her destructionproof.”

DuQUESNE’S chronometers were
accurate, his computations were sound,
and his detectors were sensitive enough
to have revealed the presence of a
smaller body than the Violet at a dis-
tance vastly greater tha.n the few mil-
lions of miles which constituted the un-
avoidable error. Therefore the Osno-
mian cruiser was found without trouble
and the transfer was effected without
untoward incident.

Then for days the Violet was hurled
at full acceleration toward the center of
the Galaxy. Long l>efore the Green
•System was reached, however, the
globular cruiser was swung off her
cotirse and. mad acceleration reversed,
was put into a great circle, so that she
would approach her destination from the
direction of our own solar system.
Slower and slower she drove onward,
tlv bright green star about which she

was circling resolving itself first into a
group of bright-green points and finally
into widely spaced, tiny green suns.

Although facing the completely un-
known and about to do battle, with their
wits certainly, and with their every
weafxjn possibly, against overwhelming
odds, neither man showed or felt either
nervousness or disorganization. Loring
was a fatalist. It was DuQuesne’s
party; he was merely the hired help.
He would do his best when the time
came to do something; until that time
came there was nothing to worry about.

DuQuesne, on the other hand, was
the repose of conscious power. He had
laid his plans as best he could with the
information then at hand. If condi-
tions changed he would change those
plans ; otherwise he would drive through
with them ruthlessly, as was his wont.
In the meantime he awaited he knew
not what, poised, cool, and confident.

Since both men were really expect-
ing the unexpected, neither betrayed
surprise when something that was ap-
parently a man materialized l)efore them
in the air of the control room. His
skin was green, as was that of all the
inhabitants of the Green System. He
was tall and well-proportioned, accord-
ing to Earthly standards, except for his
head, which was overlarge and par-
ticularly massive above the eyes and
backward from the ears. He was evi-
dently of advanced years, for his face
was seamed and wrinkled, and both his
long, heavy h»ir and his yard-long,
square-cut beard were a snowy white,
only faintly tinged with green.

The Norlaminian projection thick-
ened instantly, with none of the oscil-
lation and “hunting” which had been so
noticeable in the one which had visited
Skylark Two a few’ months earlier, for
at that comparativeh- short range the
fifth-order keyboard handling it could
hold a jx)int, how’ever moving, as accu-
rately as a Terrestrial ])hotographic tele-
sco]>e holds a star. And in the mr.mer.t

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

of materialization of his projection the
aged Norlaminian spoke.

“I welcome you to Norlamin, Ter-
restrials,” he greeted the two marauders
with the untroubled serenity and calm
courtesy of his race. “Since you are
quite evidently of the same racial stock
as our very good friends the doctors
Seaton and Crane, and since you are
traveling in a ship built by the Osnomi-
ans, I assume that you speak and under-
stand the English language which I am
employing. I suppose that you are
close friends of Seaton and Crane and
that you have come to learn why they
have not communicated with you of
late?”

SELF-CONTAINED as DuQuesne
was, this statement almost took his
breath away, squaring almost perfectly
as it did with the tale he had so care-
fully prepred. He did not show his
amazed gratification, however, but
spoke as gravely and as courteously as
the other had done:

“We are very glad indeed to see you,
sir; particularly since we know neither
the name nor the location of the planet
for which we are searching. Your as-
sumptions are correct 'in every particu-
lar save one- ”

“You do not know even the name of
Norlamin?” the Green scientist inter-
rupted. “How can that be? Did not
Dr. Seaton send the projections of all
his party to you upon Earth, and did
he not discuss matters with you?”

“I was about to explain that.” Du-
Quesne lied instantly, boldly, and con-
vincingly. “We heard that he had sent
a talking, three-dimensional picture of
his group to Earth, but after it had van-
ished all the real information that any
one seemed to have obtained was that
they were here in the Green System
somewhere, but not upon Osnome, and
that they had been taught much of sci-
ence. Mrs. Seaton did most of the talk-

ing, I gather, which may account for
the dearth of pertinent details.

“Neither my friend Coring, here, nor
I — I am Stewart Donovan, by the way
— saw the picture, or rather, projection.
You assumed that we are Seaton’s close
friends. We are engineers in his com-
pany, but we have not the honor of
his personal acquaintance. His scien-
tific knowledge was needed so urgently
that it was decided that we should come
out here after him, since the chief of
construction had heard nothing from
him for so long.”

“I see.” A shadow passed over the
seamed green face. “I am very sorry
indeed at what I have to tell you. We
did not report anjlhing of it to Earth
because of the panic that would have
ensued. We shall of course send the
whole story as soon as we can learn
what actually did take place and can
deduce therefrom the probable sequence
of events yet to occur.”

“What’s that — an accident? Some-
thing happened to Seaton?” DuQuesne
snapped. His heart leaped in joy and
relief, but his face showed only strained
anxiety and deep concern. “He isn’t
here now? Surely nothing serious
could have happened to him.”

“Alas, young friend, none of us
knows yet what really occurred. It is
highly probable, however, that their ves-
sel was destroyed in intergalactic space
by forces about which we have as yet
been aWe to learn nothing; forces di-
rected by some intelligence as yet to
us unknown. There is a possibility that
Seaton and his companions escaj>cd in
the vessel you knew as Skylark Twn,
but so far we have not been able to
find them.

“But enough of talking; you are
strained and weary and you must rest.
As soon as your vessel was detected the
beam was transferred to me — the stu-
dent Rovol, perhaps the closest to Sea-
ton of any of my race — so that I could
give you this assurance. With your

ASTOUNDING STORIES

permission I shall direct upon your con-
trols certain forces which shall so gov-
ern your flight that you shall alight
safely upon the grounds of my labora-
tory in a few minutes more than twelve
hours of your time, without any fur-
ther attention or effort upon your part.

“Further explanations can wait until
we meet in the flesh. Until that time,
my friends, do nothing save rest. Eat
and sleep without care or fear, for your
flight and your landing shall be con-
trolled with precision. Farewell !”

The projection vanished instantane-
ously, and Loring expelled his pent-up
breath in an explosive sigh.

“Whew ! But what a break, chief,
what a ”

He was interrupted by DuQuesne,
who spoke calmly and quietly, yet in-
sistently: “Yes, it is a singularly for-
tunate circumstance that the Norlamin-
ians detected us and recognized us; it
probably would have required weeks for
us to have found their planet unaided.’’
DuQuesne’s lightning mind found a
way of covering up his companion’s be-
traying exclamation and sought some
way of warning him that could not be
overheard. “Our visitor was right in
saying that we need food and rest badly,
but before we eat let us put on the
headsets and bring the record of our
flight up to date — it will take only a
minute or two.’’

“What’s biting you, chief?’’ thought
Loring as soon as the power was on.
“We didn’t have any ’’

“Plenty!’’ DuQuesne interrupted him
viciously. “Don’t you realize that they
can probably hear every word we say,
and that they can see every move we
make, even in the dark? In fact, they
may be able to read thoughts, for all I
know ; so think straight from now on,
if you never did before ! Now let’s fin-
ish up this record.”

He then impressed upon a tape the
record of everything that had just hap-
pened. They ate. Then they slept

soundly — the first really untroubled
sleep they had enjoyed for weeks. And
at last, exactly as the projection had
foretold, the Violet landed without a
jar upon the spvacious grounds beside
the laboratory of Rovol, the foremost
physicist of Norlamin.

WHEN the door of the space ship
opened, Rovol in person was standing
before it, waiting to welcome the voy-
agers and to escort them to his dwell-
ing. But DuQuesne, pretending a vast
impatience, would not be dissuaded
from the object of his search merely to
satisfy the Norlaminian amenities of
hospitality and courtesy. He poured
forth his prepared story in a breath,
concluding with a flat demand that
Rovol tell him everything he knew
about Seaton, and that he tell it at once.

“It would take far too long to tell
you anything in words,” the ancient
scientist replied placidly. “In the
laboratory, however, I can and will in-
form you fully in a few minutes con-
cerning everything that has happened.”

Utter stranger himself to deception in
any form, as was his whole race, Rovol
was easily and completely deceived by
the consummate acting, both physical
and mental, of DuQuesne and Loring.
Therefore, as soon as the three had
donned the headsets of the wonderfully
efficient Norlaminian educator, Rovol
gave to the Terrestrial adventurers
without reserve his every mental image
and his every stored fact concerning
Seaton and his supposedly ill-fated last
voyage.

Even more clearly than as if he him-
self had seen them all happen, Du-
Quesne beheld and understood Seaton’s
visit to Norlamin, the story of the Fena-
chrone peril, the building of the fifth-
order projector, the demolition of
Fenor’s space fleet, the revenge-pur-
posed flight of Ravindau the scientist,
and the complete volatilization of the
Fenachrone planet.

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

He saw Seaton’s gigantic space
cruiser Skylark Three come into being
and, uranium-driven, speed out into the
awesome void of intergalactic space in
pursuit of the last sur\dvors of the
Fenachrone race. He watched the
mighty Three overtake the fleeing ves-
sel, and understood every detail of the
epic engagement that ensued, clear to
its cataclysmic end. He watched the
victorious battleship speed on and on,
deeper and deeper into the intergalactic
void, until she began to approach the
limiting range of even the stupendous
fifty-order projector by means of which
he knew the watching had been done.

Then, at the tantalizing limit of visi-
bility, something began to happen ;
something at the very incomprehensi-
bility of which DuQuesne strained both
mind and eye, exactly as had Rovol
when it had taken place so long before.
The immense bulk of the Skylark dis-
appeared behind zone after impenetrable
zone of force, and it became increas-
ingly evident that from behind those
supposedly impervious and impregnable
shields Seaton was waging a terrific bat-
tle against some unknown opponent,
some foe invisible even to fifth-order
vision.

For nothing was visible — nothing,
that is, save the released energies which,
leaping through level after level, reached
at last even to the visible spectrum.
Yet forces of such unthinkable mag-
nitude were warring there that space
itself was being deformed visibly, mo-
ment by moment. For a long time the
space strains grew more and more in-
tense, then they disappeared instantly.
Simultaneously the Skylark’s screens of
force went down and she was for an
instant starkly visible before she ex-
ploded into a vast ball of appallingly
radiant, flaming vapor.

IN THAT instant of clear visibility,
however, Rovol’s mighty mind had pho-
tographed every salient vi.sible feature

of the great cruiser of the void. Being
almost at the limit of range of the pro-
jector, details were of course none too
plain; but certain things were evident.
The human beings were no longer
aboard ; the little lifeboat that was Sky-
lark Two was no longer in her spherical
berth ; and there were unmistakable
signs of a purposeful and deliberate de-
parture.

“And,” Rovol spoke aloud as he re-
moved the headset, “although we
searched minutely and most carefully
all the surrounding space we could find
nothing tangible. From these observa-
tions it is all too plain that Seaton was
attacked by some intelligence wielding
dirigible forces of the sixth order; that
he was able to set up a defensive pat-
tern ; that his supply of power uranium
was insufficient to cope with the attack-
ing forces; and that he took the last
desperate means of escaping from his
foes by rotating Skylark Two into the
unknown region of the fourth dimen-
sion.”

DuQuesne’s stunned mind groped for
a moment in an amazement akin to
stupefaction, but he recovered quickly
and decided ujxjn his course.

“Well, what are you doing about it?”
he snapped.

“We have done and are doing every-
thing possible for i:s, in our present
state of knowledge and advancement, to
do,” Rovol replied placidly. “We sent
out forces, as I told you, which ob-
tained and recorded all the phenomena
to which they were sensitive. It is true
that a great deal of data escaped them,
because the primary impulses originated
in a level beyond our present knowledge,
but the fact that we cannot under-
stand it has only intensified our in-
terest in the problem. It shall be
solved. After its solution we shall
know what steps to take and those steps
shall then be taken.”

“Have you any idea how long it will
take to solve the problem?”

ASTOUNDING STORIES

“N')t the slightest. Perhaps one life-
time, perhaps many — who knows?

However, rest assured that it shall be
solved, and that the condition shall be
dealt with in the manner which shall
l)est serve the interest of humanity as
a whole.”

“But good heavens !” exclaimed Du-
Quesne. “In the meantime, what of
Seaton and Crane?” He was now
speaking his true thoughts. Upon this,
his first encounter, he could in nowise
understand the deep, calm, timeless
trend of mind of the Norlaminians : not
even dimly could he grasp or appre-
ciate the seemingly slow but inexorably
certain method in which they pursued
relentlessly any given line of research
to its ultimate conclusion.

“If it should be graven upon the
sphere that they shall pass they may —
and will — pass in all tranquility, for
they know full well that it was not in
idle gesture that the massed intellect
of Noflamin assured them that their
passing should not be in vain. You,
however, youths of an unusually youth-
ful and turbulent race, could not be
expected to view the passing of such
a one as Seaton from our own mature
viewpoint.”

“I’ll tell the universe that I don't
look at things the way yoti do !” barked
DuQuesne .scathingly. “When I go
back to Earth — if I go — I shall at least
have tried. I’ve got a life-sized pic-
ture of myself standing idly by while
some one else tries for seven hundred
years to decipher the indecipherable!”

“There speaks the impetuousness
of youth,” the old man chilled. “I have
told t'ou that we have proved that at
present we can do nothing whatever
for the occupants of Skylark Tzvo. Be
warned, my rash young friend; do not
tamper with powers entirely beyond
your comprehension.”

“Warning be damned !” DuQuesne
snorted. “We’re shoving off. Come
on, Loring — the quicker we get started

the better our chance of getting some-
thing done. You’ll be willing to give
me the exact bearing and the distance,
won’t you, Rovol?”

“We shall do more than that, son,”
the Green patriarch replied, while a
shadow came over his wrinkled visage.
“Your life is your own, to do with as
you see fit. You have chosen to go in
search of your friends, scorning the
odds against you. But before I tell you
what I have in mind, I must try once
more to make you see that the courage
which dictates the useless sacrifice of a
life ceases to be courage at all, but
becomes sheerest folly.

“Since we have had .sufficient power
several of our youths have been study-
ing the fourth dimension. They ro-
tated many inanimate objects into that
region, but could recover none of them.
Instead of waiting until they had de-
rived the fundamental equations gov-
erning such phenomena they rashly vis-
ited that region in person, in a vain at-
tempt to achieve a short cut to knowl-
edge. Not one of them has come back.

“Now I declare to you in all solem-
nity that the quest you wdsh to under-
take. involving as it does not only that
entirely unknown region but also the
equally unknown sixth order of vibra-
tions. is to you at present utterly im-
possible. Do you still insist upon go-
ing?”

“We certainly do. You may as well
save your breath.”

“Very well; so be it. Frankly, I bad
but little hope of swerving you from
vour purpose by reason. But before
you go we shall supply you with every
resource at our command which may
in any way operate to increase your in-
finitesimal chance of success. We shall
build for you a duplicate of Seaton’s
own Skylark Three, equipped with
every device known to our science, ami
we shall instruct you fully in the use
of those devices before you set out.”

THE SKYLARK OF VALERON

“But the time ” DuQuesne began

to object.

“A matter of hours only,” Rovol si-
lenced him. “True, it took us some
little time to build Skylark Three, but
that was because it had not been done,
before. Every force employed in her
construction was of course recorded, and
to reproduce her in every detail, without
attention or supervision, it is necessary
only to thread this tape, thus, into the
integrator of my master keyboard. The
actual construction will of course take
place in the area of experiment, but you
may watch it, if you wish, in this visi-
plate. I must make a short series of
observations at this time. I will return
in ample time to instruct you in the
operation of the vessel and of everj thing
in it.”

Tn stunned amazement the two men
stared into the visiplate, so engrossed
in what they saw there that they scarcely
noticed the departure of the aged scien-
tist. For before their eyes there had
already sprung into being an enormous
structure of laced and latticed members
of purple metal, stretching over two
miles of level plain. While it was very
narrow for its length, yet its fifteen
hundred feet of diameter dwarfed into
insignificance the many outlandish struc-

tures near by, and under their staring
eyes the vessel continued to take form
with unbelievable rapidity. Gigantic
girders appeared in place as though by
magic; skin after skin of thick, purple
inoson was welded on ; all without the
touch of a hand, without the thought of
a brain, without the application of any
visible force.

“Now you can say it. Doll ; there’s no
spy ray on us here. What a break —
what a break !” exulted DuQuesne. “The
old fossil swallowed it bodily, hook, line,
and sinker!”

“It may not be so good, though, at
that, chief, in one way. He’s going to
watch us, to help us out if we get into
a jam, and with that infernal telescope,
or whatever it is, the Earth is right
under his nose.”

“Simpler than taking milk away from
a blind kitten,” the saturnine chemist
gloated. “We’ll go out to where Seaton
went, only farther — out beyond the
the reach of his projector. There, com-
pletely out of touch with him, we’ll circle
around the Galaxy back to Eiarth and
do our stuff. Easier than dynamiting
fish in a bucket— the old sap’s handing
me everything I want, right on a silver
platter 1”

To be continued.

COSMIC RHYTHM

by HARL VINCENT

Is perhaps the most truly superscientihc story ever written by
this favorite author. It delves deeply into the well-known
phenomenon of physical rhythms, and postulates a staggering
and entirely new theory.

Make sure of your

OCTOBER ASTOUNDING STORIES

in advance!

by Howard W. Graham, Ph. D,

Illustrated by Elliot Bold

A CATACLYSM of broken light
burst on him ; he heard the
avalanchian thunders of the
measured centuries, shuddered, opened
his eyes. A moment since, his hands
had rested on the dials of the machine.
The headgear, with its bare electrodes
clasped to his throat, was fastened
snugly to his skull. As far as Vincent

knew, he had merely blinked his eyes,
but in that instant the phenomenon had
occurred. He was no longer at the ma-
chine, and its drumming whine had
stopped.

What he could see of the laboratory
from his position was about the same.
He wore the helmet still, but he was
isolated from the apparatus and the

TIME HAVEN

switch panel by a plate-glass case. The
helmet’s terminals were still fixed to the
apparatus, running through a small hole
bored in the glass. Vincent realized
that he was lying supine on a low dais-
like table and that he was supremely un-
comfortable. The dais, in turn, was
supported by a broad stone shelf on
which the glass canopy rested. Vincent
staggered to his feet, otripping off the
helmet. He felt weak, ragged.

“Help!”

He pounded on the glass, suffocating.
A slim, eagle-faced man, a total
stranger, stood in the room looking out
of the tall windows. He heard the dull
sound of drumming fists and turned.

“Ah I” he said, without any show of
surprise.

He approached at a short, smart walk,
and placing his hands flat against the
end of the case caused the panel to slip
down flush with the floor. Air rushed
in.

“Come I” He offered Vincent his
hand and escorted him to a low, soft
lounge against the wall.

“How do you feel now? Better?”

He was solicitous and deftly compe-
tent. Vincent had the heels of his palms
pressed to his pounding temples. He
looked up into staccato black eyes.

“Tell me how you feel,” the stranger
insisted.

“Who the devil are you?” Vincent
demanded. “I don’t know you; what
are you doing here?”

Without answering, the slight, dark
man rose and left the room; he reap-
peared in a moment with a glass of
brandy. Vincent choked on a full swal-
low of it.

“Easy,” said the stranger. “I cannot
tell you how pleased I am that this thing
has occurred in my own lifetime, my
tenure of office. I am Hayden Cope,
your director.”

“Director?” Vincent gave Cope a
blank stare of distrust.

“Of course you wouldn’t know. Di-

rector of the Merryfield Tower and
your interests.” The last two words
were given heavy emphasis.

His mind still sluggish from its long
disuse, Vincent was surprised by Cope’s
following question.

“By the way, did you ever see your
grandmother, the founder ?”

“Why, no; I didn’t.” Vincent was
puzzled. “She died before I was born.”

“No pictures, no descriptions in writ-
ing? Letters, perhaps?” Cope insisted.

Vincent shook his head.

“That’s very unfortunate, the great-
est woman of all time, and we haven’t
the slightest idea of what she looked
like.” Cope sat on the lounge, at-
tentively curious, while the inevitable
question formed in Vincent’s mind.

“What year is this ?”

“I have been waiting for you to ask
that.” Cope smiled. “2443, your
count.”

“Then it worked ! The apparatus
there — knocked me out.”

“Yes.”

Cope took Vincent’s arm and led him
to the windows, which he pushed out-
ward. The two stepped out onto a gal-
lery. Vincent rested his hands on the
balustrade and looked down in awe.
From this gallery one commanded a
view of the entire city.

It was a clear, mistless day, and Vin-
cent could see far out across the open
water of the ocean. As far as he could
determine, sweeping his eyes, dum-
founded, over the panorama of the city
beneath him. New York consisted of
one building alone, and that was the
building in which he was standing.

This building was the Merryfield
Tower. In 1936 his laboratory had
been established on the second floor. It
had been moved, with every detail of
furnishing, eight-hundred-odd stories
up. He judged the height of the gal-
lery to be approximately two miles.
Turning his eyes upward, he saw that

ASTOUNDING STORIES

the tower continued higher till it blurred
in dimness in the wilderness of blue sky.

“Good Heaven !” he ejaculated.

Cope laughed and answered an un-
spoken query: “Thirty-six thousand,
nine hundred and eighty-three feet and
a few inches. There is some expansion
and contraction according to weather.
The Merryfield Corporation !“ Cope
seemed vastly entertained.

LIKE a stone octopus, the tower had
devoured Manhattan and the boroughs
surrounding. Other skyscrapers were
lost in the strangle of architecture far
below. The rivers were canopied with
stone. \'incent watched an ocean liner
approach the stone margin down the
harbor and disappear ; all ships with
piers in both rivers entered through tun-
nels of masonry that had long since
flooded over them. Babel !

The colossal tower was supported
with flying buttress-viaducts, aerial
highways that provided direct approach
to the tower up to a few stories below.
Broad, soaring entablatures with their
colonnades of inhabited stone crawled
with traffic, vehicular and otherwise;
the terminals of several buttresses were
sunk with a display of loading stages in
the sea itself. The Merryfield Tower
stood gigantic over Manhattan like a
grotesque, incredible screw pine that
man had built in steel and masonry. The
sounds of machinery, of life and move-
ment below, rushed up like interminable
waterfalls.

Down the gallery a girl emerged from
the tower and stepi^ed to an aperture in
the balustrade. She wore a thick jacket
and carried a light machine on her
shoulders. She poised there for a mo-
ment searching below for a destination,
then stepped off the gallery and fell like
a stone, her garments whipping.

“Don’t be alarmed,” murmured Cope
at Vincent’s cry of warning. He shiv-
ered a little in the brisk, thin air, un-

hooked a machine from the wall. It was
much similar to the one worn by the
girl. “Elevators are impracticable at
this height and would waste priceless
floor space as well ; these portable affairs
are used instead. They are quite sim-
ple to use, and light, as you see. If you
care to have an instructor sent up? Do
you want to go below, visit the upper
stories ?”

Vincent shook his head, but examined
the machine with interest. It had a
small, powerful battery of some kind
inclosed in an aluminum dome on top.
The rest of the machine was cylindrical
in form and consisted of a series of nine
or ten thick metal disks or plates which
were separated from each other by cores
of fine wire. The cylinder was some-
thing over a foot in height and was per-
forated at the bottom, sievelike.

Cope explained that the motive prin-
ciple was a form of energy known as
black light which was released through
the holes as the operator willed. The
black light might be obtained either by
condensing cosmic rays or by filtering
sunlight, in which it occurred, and stor-
ing it in batteries.

“You see. it is really more simple in
operation than the gasoline engine,”
Cope explained.

A single row of perforations lined
the sides of the case for horizontal mo-
tion, while a gyroscope principle kept
the operator always perpendicular. Mo-
tion was jwssible in two directions only
and in revolving, the machine being
fixed according to law as protection
against accidents. The apparatus was
controlled by a button nest that hung
over the shoulder by a cord, that fitted
nicely into the palm of the hand. The
whole mechanism was fitted snugly into
a stout, reasonably comfortable canvas
jacket that could be worn by any op-
erator of average build.

“I suppose you have no orders yet,”
Cope remarked. “You own all this, you

TIME HAVEN

know.” The sweep of his hand included
the entire city, the world.

Vincent stared while Cope patiently
shook with cold.

“Richard, the last of the Merryfield
line, died a hundred and thirty years
ago. You are Vincent Merryfield,
aren’t you?”

“Of course. Yes. But after all,
I ”

“Don’t you know what your grand-
mother, Hattie Merryfield, did back
there in the twentieth century? Don’t
you realize the position you occupy?”

They returned to Vincent’s chambers.
Cope closed the windows with relief.

“My father — I ” Vincent faltered

with embarrassment.

Cope gave him a keen, probing look,
burst out laughing. He restored warmth
to his slim white hands with a brisk
rubbing as he chuckled discreetly.

“What irony!” he exclaimed. “Of
course you wouldn’t know.”

His respect was shaded with mockery
as he went on to explain what every one
in the world knew but Vincent himself.
Cope was a sardonic person after his
fashion.

Hattie Merryfield, sound in mind and
body but at the point of death through
age, made a singular bequest to her way-
ward son Quinn in a last will and testa-
ment. It was in the 1930’s, in spring.
A good time to die. The Merryfields
had been a powerful social and business
family, a money-hungry clan save for
occasional freaks like Quinn, who was a
fair lad interested in architecture. These
black Merryfields were called “aliens”
in the family.

To Hattie herself, any vocation out-
side pure business was forthright in-
sanity ; she believed piously that Quinn
Merryfield was consigned to ignominy
as an architect. She made no bones,
either, about prophesying broadcast ex-
travagances if the Merryfield coffers
were willed to him in toto. To insure
the fortune from pillage and Quinn

against shame, Hattie devised an ingen-
ious scheme that was as sound as it was
inspired.

IN THE upper Thirties of Manhat-
tan, Hattie purchased six full city blocks
in a parcel, left the bulk of the Merry-
field fortune in trust. The trustees were
three in number and made a perpetual
body in the appointing power of the sur-
viving members should one of their
number die. Should all three die, the
trust would still not be permitted to fail
for want of a trustee, through appoint-
ing power reverting to the courts.

Hattie Merryfield left nothing out-
right to her son Quinn but ground on
which to build, and requisitions on the
trust fund for materials, costs, and his
own generous salary as architect. If
he was to be an architect, let him prove
it; she left him nothing else.

Without fully realizing it before the
hand of death plucked her off, Hattie
thereby established a line of Merryfield
architects, no provision having been
made for members of the family who
were not actually occupied with the con-
struction of the Merryfield Tower. The
trust fund was established for the con-
venience of male descendants in the
Merryfield line, architects alone, unto
the end. The “aliens” were natural-
ized.

Having leisurely plotted seventy or
eighty stories and left the top of all his
elevations blank, Quinn Merryfield
raised two sons, Edwin and Vincent.
Edwin, the elder, received careful train-
ing in all branches of architecture, the
commercial specialized, and Wncent was
left to his own devices. In the course
of time Edwin drew up a complemen-
tary set of prints, left the head off
his tower, also. The Merryfield heri-
tage became the ritual of leaving the top
off the tower. Matters standing as they
did Vincent seized the sunniest cham-
bers on the second floor of the tower,
then a paltry seven stories in height, and

ASTOUNDING STORIES

devoted himself to the scientific pursuits
that interested him.

“But how ” Vincent interrupted.

“Of course,” said Cope grimly, “you
were the Merryfield ‘alien’ then, weren't
you? Fortunately, in the latter days of
Richard Merryfield, in 2308, to be exact,
construction on the tower was halted by
enactment of the legislature. The top-
less tower reached its conclusion at last.
A number of slight earth shocks per-
suaded faint hearts in the State legisla-
ture that the mass of the tower was al-
ready sufficient to obliterate half the
population if it were to fall.

“Thereupon court action, over the
heads of the trustees, returned the Mer-
ryfield estate to the family. This, after
generations of Merryfields had raised
this tower nearly seven miles above the
surface, and after the juggling financial
wizardry of the perpetual body of
trustees had insinuated their control into
practically every major enterprise and
government on the civilized globe.
Whew! What a joke!”

“What hapj>ened to Richard Merry-
field?”

“He died five years later, in 2313,”
said Cope, “before he had a chance to
do much damage. He was without is-
sue. He wanted to exercise his full
authority in world affairs, but be was
incompetent. Insane, perhaps. Hence
this governing board in the Merryfield
Corporation, of which I am director.
The courts began that also.”

“What is my position, then?” Vin-
cent demanded. “You say I own all
this, the tower, everything.”

( “That is quite true,” Cope admitted
reluctantly. “Italy cannot war upon
Austria without your permission. No
ruler, dictator, or president can be
elected save on your order. So far it
has all been done through legally ap-
pointed representatives. Mockery, isn’t
it? Once you were a mere amateur ex-
perimenter in this tower, working on a
limited allowance, for all your power-

ful name. Now you have everything.
Everything! You have greater author-
ity than any other one man ever had,
Vincent Merryfield. It’s time you came.
I am happy to be at your service.”

“So you knew I was coming?” \’in-
cent asked. “The glass case — all my ap-
paratus is here still ”

“Coming?” Cope was perplexed at
Vincent’s doubt. “Of course! It has
always been known that you would ‘ap-
pear’ sooner or later. We are not blind.
As you see, it was thought advisable to
move several chambers on the second
story to this one. Fanatics, you know.
You have been the object of murder a
number of times. The glass case was
for your protection, of course. I am
terribly sorry that you were inconven-
ienced.”

Cope opened the inside door of the
chambers, excused himself.

“I should advise you not to leave the
floor,” he said. “Your appearance must
be announced beforehand — routines

” He stared through the windows

into the blazing afternoon. “Is there
anything you wish personally before I
go? The library and lounge is through
that door, if you care to smoke. Food?
Would you care for companionship, j:>er-

haps? Some one to ”

Vincent cut him short with a quick,
embarrassed shake of the head.

“Very well.” Cope shrugged a little
peevishly. “I will be back shortly.”

VINCENT returned to his machine
first, the apparatus that had brought
him here out of his own time. Time
traveling — an idle dream back then,
spanning the years with one stride. This
was the machine that had finally accom-
plished it, for him alone. That the con-
cept of time was equally the concept of
matter and energy since one did not ex-
ist without the other — that he had
proved. That in controlling matter and
energ)’ man partially controlled time as

TIME HAVEN

well — that he had proved also. Full
control he had established.

Two dials alone guided the apparatus,
one the frequency of vibration, one the
strength. His stride through time de-
pended on no more than the proper
manipulation of the two dials, the head-
gear with its electrodes. A simple
mechanism essentially, as all mechan-
isms are. The loose jumble of tubes,
still with a simple function, converters,
powerful condensers — all were exactly
as he had left them. Were they? Noth-
ing was changed save in the machine’s
antique appearance, the handling of the
centuries.

Generations of attendants and experi-
menters had nicked the apparatus,
twisted connections and straightened
them again. Two bulbs were obviously
burned out, had not been replaced.
Worse and worse. The foil on the
plates of the current amplifier was badly
scraped; he wondered how it had func-
tioned at all after such mishandling.

The twenty-four bulbs in the “feed”
cabinet, on which the dials were
mounted, were loose in their sockets.
One was a strange affair, a double-
vacuum arrangement with wiring in-
side, a thing that he had never seen be-
fore. Strange ! He pulled it out, saw
that it was an improvement on his own
hook-up, a short cut. Three or four of
these would do instead of his two dozen.

Vincent suddenly felt weak in the
knees. There was something he had not
taken into account, what had mystified
him in Cope’s advance knowledge. No
matter what year had been his spring-
board, no matter in what year he re-
appeared, the apparatus, and himself
with it, perhaps, must have been cur-
rently in existence. One did not brush
through time at once, brush time aside,
as it were.

Traveling through time was a matter
of acceleration, not simply a vacant leap.
In all the time that had elapsed since he
began work he had really been at the

mercy of living men that surrounded
him. He was not unknown. His passage
was recorded by a world population.
However instant his flight to himself,
he was, as far as the Merryfield interests
were concerned, merely a living phenom-
enon to be preserved and guarded in the
recesses of the tower.

In a single blur Vincent had really ex-
perienced cataclysms, famine, and war
— five hundred years of recorded history
while the Merryfield Tower mounted
heavenward with its increasing, abso-
lute importance in the earth’s govern-
ment. All in the wink of an eye. To
Vincent it was a complete acceleration
— a. blur, a crash of light and sound. But
to the Merryfield trustees, to the army
of big and little officials, under-direc-
tors and stenographers, department
heads and secretaries, and the intermina-
ble cavalcade of curious visitors, Vin-
cent Merryfield’s bodily functions had
been slowed up to the point where the
reluctant beat of his heart was an item
of international importance.

He checked over the wiring of the
machine to see whether anything else
had been disturbed. One of the most
important devices in the apparatus was
a parallel-plane arrangement of current-
sensitive metal plates at the rear of the
cabinet. It was inclosed in glass and
so delicately adjusted that a careless jar
might render the apparatus useless.
Bombardments of deuteron particles
oscillated between the plates, and when
the machine was in operation a grid
screen of bare platinum between the
plates absorbed the greater number of
the particles and carried them down
through the apparatus proper in a steady
stream of high-frequency energy.

It was part of the means he developed
for transforming electrical energy into
the elusive kind of force he required.
And largely a matter of repeated power
amplification and filtering through the
screens and tubes. The tubes, of course,
sooner or later filled with a slight de-

ASTOUNDING STORIES

posit, burned out. Two of them dead.
The wiring in the glass box was obvi-
ously wrecked. The platinum filaments
were free and vibrated delicately on
their terminals.

Vincent worked a switch rapidly on
the cabinet, turned it on and off several
times. There was no responding whine.
He followed terminals through the am-
plifying apparatus on the floor. Be-
hind this set-up of metal rods, vacuum
tubes, coils, a Gordian knot of scientific
ingenuity, his feed cables hung free with
bound ends.

“The hell!” he ejaculated. “It’s
dead I”

He completed a profane circuit of
the pile of mechanism and ran per-
plexed fingers through his hair. Well,
the machine would be easy enough to
repair. He wondered, nevertheless ; the
initial impetus of the machine must have
been sufticient to carry him thus far.
The notion of a prank obsessed him ; he
■felt a little discomfited that the phenom-
enon he had exjjerienced had been at
least partially an accident.

In the library, tbe door to which Cope
had pointed out to him, Vincent found
cigarettes and smoked one while he ex-
amined titles on the shelves with curi-
osity. Nothing familiar, when he man-
aged to decipher words at all. Written
English, at least, had changed lieyond
recognition. Thoroughly phoneticized.
But one title was indisputably “Essen-
tials of the Merryfield Plant.”

His own name, indeed, appeared fre-
quently in what constituted the techni-
cal section of the library, though the al-
phabet itself had suffered corruption in
form, and he had no little difficulty at
first in identifying letters. \ incent
opened one of the books, was too impa-
tient to read very far.

He wandered nervously back into the
laboratory, flushed and profoundly em-
barrassed over his predicament. From
what Cope and Vincent’s own exam-
ination of his apparatus implied, his

body had been on show to hands and
eyes for five hundred years — museum
piece. He felt smeared, grimed ; in a
sudden, paradoxical feeling of exhilara-
tion he felt an immediate necessity of
bathing. They had bathed him often
enough in those endless years, he sup-
posed. He was not wearing his own
careless clothes any longer. These were
■new, of an odd cut. He smelled of
faint perfume and antiseptic, a queer
mingling. They had taken good care of
him, all right, had nevertheless violated
what he chose to call his personal sanc-
tity.

A DISCREET knoc’.; on the door.
Vincent heard it when he was busy re-
pairing the plate filter, having found the
greater number of his tools in the
drawer where he had left them.

“Come,” he said absently.

Soft feet slipped into the room. Vin-
cent looked up and saw Cope, a hard
gray bulk of man who was introduced
as Secretary of State Marvin Croydon,
three young women. Croydon left im-
mediately, having given Vincent the
most insulting, searching stare to which
he had ever been subjected.

“What did he want?’’ Vincent de-
manded angrily. “He didn’t say a
word.”

“It wasn’t necessary.” Cope smiled.
“All he needs to say to the president is
that he has seen you.”

“Who is president now?”

“What does it matter?” Cope was
indiflerent. But he added, “Richmond
Thomas.”

Vincent barely acknowledged the in-
troductions of the three young women.
Their functions were simple. One to
bring him papers to sign, papers be
could neither read nor understand ;
Cope’s signature was full authority for
any act of the Merryfield Corporation,
Vincent’s a mere formality. One to
take such dictation as he cared to give,
which would be valueless without the

AST— 3

TIME HAVEN

corporation’s sanction. All this was ex-
plained most subtly by Cope in end-
less and suave detail to avoid any sug-
gestion of affront. The third secretary
was Vincent’s companion.

“In other words, I have no authority
whatever,’’ Vincent mocked.

Cope said nothing, waited patiently.

“How much does my inheritance
amount to?’’

“Even I do not know that,’’ Cope ad-
mitted.

“I wish it converted into cash at
once,’’ said Vincent grimly.

Cope stared at him with incredulity.
He became visibly irritated. “Impos-
sible!" he ejaculated. “You can’t con-
vert flesh and blood into metal. There
is no balance between cash and property,
never has been. Please, sir ! Exchanges
of credit have no substance. There is
nothing for you to buy, sir. You don’t
need actual money. If you wish to
travel you may do so, under escort.
Anything else you wish will be provided
immediately. You lack nothing.’’

\’incent had a mental image of him-
self inclosed in the glass case, with an
endless queue of sight-seers and author-
ized pilgrims filing past his still body.

“Privacy !’’ he said bitterly. “I have
everything, and I have nothing at all. I
told you I wanted nothing. Get out, all
of you !’’

“You needn’t take it this way, sir,”
Cope expostulated. “Wlrat in Heaven’s
name did you expect? What’s the mat-
ter?”

“I don’t want any of this,” Vincent
cried. “I never had any share in the
Merryfield fortune and want none of it
now. You’re right. I was the Merry-
field ‘alien.’ Except for an accident,
I’d have no more now than I had then.
I got along well enough then, by my-
self. I want to be alone now. Will you
get out, or is there some damned reg-
ulation to prevent me from throwing
you out?”

AST— 4

Hayden Cope waggled his slim hands
helplessly, backed off a step or two.
Two of the secretaries left in a state
of consternation. The “companion” re-
mained, looked at Cope inquiringly. She
was of good family, a handsome,
smooth-skinned girl with honey-colored
hair and straight gray eyes; she lived
in the chambers opening on the lowest
terrace of gardens down the gallery,
one of a flight mounting the east face
of the tower.

“The girl, sir,” Cope choked, almost
wringing his hands. "Miss Hollis.”

“Send her out!” Vincent snapjoed. “I
told you I didn’t want anything! Fire
her, fire all of them, or whatever you
do with them !”

“That’s just the point, sir.” Cope
was anguished. “You can’t do that. All
these people have been appointed to per-
petual offices established by the State.
There are no supernumeraries. If Miss
Hollis is discharged, her office is abol-
ished. She must leave the tower. All
offices are filled, and there is no other
place for her, unless she is sent to the
country or returned to training school.
W’hat humiliation !”

“Then I hold power of dismissal,”
said Vincent savagely. “That’s some-
thing! Does that include you. Cope?”

“No, sir,” said Cope cautiously. “You
see, sir, all offices are graded by letter.
Governmental letters are exempt. Of
course, tower authority and govern-
mental authority amount to practically
the same thing — you don’t realize the
ramifications of your interests, sir. But
in reality you have the authority to hire
and- discharge only such officials as are
directly responsible to you.

“It so happens that my position here
is equally an office in national policy,
and I may not be removed save by act
of congress. My office falls in the ‘A’
classification, and the letter ‘A’ or-
dinarily follows my name in all signa-
tures, as you will see when your secre-

ASTOUNDING STORIES

tary brings in important documents for
you to sign. Your companion is Miss
Carol Hollis ‘L’.”

“WHAT a ridiculous business !” Vin-
cent raised his voice to a fury of con-
tempt. “Clockwork, eh? All labeled
and classified, all of you. Cogs! /HI
your little duties indexed, a government
of robots. Is that it?”

“There have been no depressions, no
governmental calamities, for two hun-
dred years,” said Cope quietly. He was
a clever enough man to perceive the
frustration in Vincent’s manner. “If
many trivial restrictions have been
placed on the pursuit of happiness, it is
for the universal good.”

“A few minutes ago you spoke of
war. That has a familiar sound.”

“ ‘Permissory wars,’ sir,” Cope ex-
plained wearily. “There is a certain
limited type of intelligence whose com-
bative nature must be curbed. Men of
this type make up our armies, and are
periodically pitted against each other.
They are only children, after all, and
it has been found best to turn a primi-
tive thirst for blood into a game.

“Birth rates are under State control;
there is no reason for cutting down pop-
ulations save in certain sections of Asia,
where four times a century, on the aver-
age, the International Permissory War
Games become State combats in earnest
and men are really slain. None of ours,
of course, or very few of them. Our
men frequently experience a forgivable
stomach sickness at the sight of blood
and are honorably put hors de combat.”

Vincent glared at Cope, suddenly
broke into a riot of laughter.

“Yes, sir,” said Cope politely. “The
next games are scheduled for the sum-
mer of next year on the South Amer-
ican coastal plain. There are scores of
old ships to be sunk, a number of out-
moded planes and rockets to be demol-
ished. If you care to see them, sir,
I believe I can manage to have the

games scheduled back to next month.”

“No!”

“And Miss Hollis, sir?”

Vincent caught an expression of sheer
terror in her grave, gray eyes. Discom-
fited at a situation he could not solve at
the moment, he turned his back with-
out word or sign, returned to his litter
of useless machinery. He continued re-
pairing it. Cope made a gentle sign to
the girl and slipped from the room with
a long sigh of relief. The control board
of the corporation was in session on the
floor above, Vincent having precipitated
a national crisis by emerging from the
glass case.

Cope was long overdue. He felt that
Vincent’s singular position had been
thoroughly explained; that henceforth
the Merryfield Corporation stood in no
greater jeopardy than it ever had. After
all, the problem of Vincent Merryfield
was a purely personal one. His care-
fully delineated place in the scheme of
things remained precisely the same
whether he moved in world affairs or
stayed entranced in time. He would no
doubt acquiesce to the normal duties
required of him in the course of events.

Thank Heaven Vincent’s assumption
of his inheritance was no more difficult
than it had been! Cope glowed with
faint pride in his own tact. He van-
ished up a gleaming, broad staircase into
the council chamber and out of the pic-
ture.

Vincent felt the gaze of steady eyes
and at last turned. Miss Hollis was
sitting quietly on the wall lounge next
to the windows. Carol Hollis showed
the camation-glow of intelligence in her
face, and she was intelligent. It was a
requirement of her office. She nodded
to him with perfect composure and said :

“I think I understand.” Her voice
was sweet, expertly trained. “It won’t
do you any good.”

“The contrary. The old-style bulbs
will do well enough, and facilities for
making those I need will be granted if

TIME HAVEN

I make the demand. Power cables will
be run to this room and connected if I
have to do it myself. I’m going back,
reverse the mechanism. After all,” he
grinned, “I owe my brother Edwin
nearly a thousand dollars for supplies,
and for five centuries I haven’t felt right
about defaulting on him.” He sat be-
side her on the lounge.

“You haven’t read the books in the
library yet, of course.”

“No. I’d have to learn to read all
over again. The words don’t make
sense — alphabet’s changed. I don’t sup-
pose you realize that.”

“But we do. All of us in this sec-
tion of the tower speak and write as you
do as a part of our training, in case you
were to come. Modern English, though,
is only a corruption of late English.
You will learn quite easily. I’m sure.”
“I’m going back where I belong,”
Vincent insisted petulantly. “I was
never happy back there, but it’s worse
here. I’m through.”

“You can’t go back. Don’t you un-
derstand? That machine is no good to
you now — it was good for only one
thing. There are a number of books
in the library that will explain.”

“I think I already know how that
mechanism operates,” he said acidly.

“I suppose you do, in a way.” She
folded her hands tightly in her lap. “It
is one of the most incredibly ingenious
things that any man ever built. But
haven’t you wondered why no one else
has used its principle after all these
years, when it was common knowledge?
You can go forward in time, Vincent,
the way you have done, but only within
limits. You couldn’t have stood much
more of it.

“ALL THAT beautiful mechanism
does is induce a cataleptiform condition
in the body,” the girl went on. “The
operator receives an instant, paralyzing
shock that is all but fatal. It causes an
insidious structural change in the body

cells. Not true catalepsy; it’s what is
called bodily deceleration, and had been
used in a modified form in the hospitals
for the treatment of certain blood con-
ditions. The device is hazardous to use.
You took a terrible chance, Vincent.”

“Catalepsy !” he exclaimed. He Avas
reaching the end of his short patience,
hemmed in physically and mentally.
“Impossible ! I don’t know much about
that, but I know perfectly well that pro-
longed catalepsy causes death in a
mighty short while, a few years at the
outside. You’re mistaken. Miss Hol-
lis ‘L’.”

“I am not mistaken.” She smiled re-
spectfully. “It is all common knowl-
edge. You have been under observation
always; the bound reports are in the
next room. Every heartbeat, every cu-
bic centimeter of breath you have taken,
has been recorded over long periods of
time. Time traveling, is that what you
thought it was? Not exactly that.”

“When I have the machine repaired,
we’ll see,” said Vincent grimly. “Time
can be crossed both ways.”

“I feel sorry for you, Vincent.”
Carol’s eyes shadowed. “Terribly sorry.
Don’t you see that time doesn’t exist
outside of the concept itself ? That it is
only an aspect of matter, of energy?
They are inseparable. You only empha-
sized the fact with that marvelous ma-
chine. You can arrest the action of
the body, prolong your life great periods
at a time, but you can’t go back. Never.
It’s no use.

“And you are always taking the
chance that your body may be disposed
of by some accident while you are in
the trance. You are dependent on other
people, on constant attendance to keep
you alive. Did you know that you had
to be given small quantities of food and
water periodically ? Please! Try to for-
get about it — there’s nothing you can
do.” She moved closer in her trained,
subtle way; she had a bland, exciting
perfume.

ASTOUNDING STORIES

Vincent rose slowly, staring down at
her incredulously. He still did not be-
lieve. He didn’t want to believe her.
Somehow he had made a vast error that
his mind stubbornly refused to grasp.
Catalepsy, or as she had said, a catalep-
tiform condition. Cataleptiform — it was
a trick word, and he wondered where
she had picked it up. Out of the books
here, probably, if her official duties
were really just living here and waiting
for him. Carol Hollis ‘L’. What a
paltry existence he had come into !

As he walked slowly across the room
he mentally checked over every last de-
tail in the apparatus he had constructed,
balancing her word against his own be-
lief, His theories of atomic disintegra-
tion, the division of forces through am-
plifier, tube, and condenser, the nature
of the force which the apparatus gen-
erated.

He came back to the time concept it-
self. He had been working backward
and worked himself into a delusion. It
was a concept, then, not an entity at all.
Of course ! What fool could ever
imagine it to be otherwise? Something
that could be measured, but not con-
trolled. Time. No bridging it.

“Vincent !’’ Carol called to him.

He kept his back to her, stared out of
the windows from the two-mile height
of the gallery. Now that he could not
leave this place or this time save in one
direction only, a terrible nostalgia
surged through him till he thought he
would suffocate. The necessity of mo-
tion, of going somewliere, anywhere, be-
came a madness. He pushed open the
windows. Cold — and tlie heart-quick-
ening, rarefied atmosphere.

He picked the jacket machine from
its peg on the wall, and for lack of some-
thing better to do tried it on. It was an
easy way of escaping Cope, at any rate,
leaving the tower and the people in it
behind him. He determined to go be-

low. He swung the control pendant
over his shoulder and held it firmly,
stepped briskly down tlie gallery. The
girl sprang up from the couch and fol-
lowed him. She watched him anx-
iously from the window-threshold,
shivering.

Vincent paused at the take-off space
in the balustrade, automatically check-
ing over Cope’s brief description of how
the elevating device was operated. It
was an odd gadget, resting on his shoul-
ders no more heavily than a pillow. He
wondered whether it would jerk, how
much it would pull when he pressed the
button that stopped descent. Carol ran
down the gallery frantically as he
stepped off. A veneer of thin ice lay
in patches on the stone.

Directly below, far down at ground
level, was an open court. The architec-
ture On the tower’s east elevation left
the court free so that any one using the
elevating devices would be unimpeded
in taking an instant drop or rise to any
story in the tower.

Vincent's body accelerated in its fall
at a terrific ratio. Gravity, at least, he
thought whimsically, still exerted the
same old pull. That, at least, was un-
changed. He tossed the control pen-
dant free over his shoulder and went
down feet first like a god, his arm
folded across his breast and his eyes out-
ward toward the sea.

Carol had reached the break in the
balustrade almost in time to touch his
shoulder. Then he was below. She
leaned over the balustrade staring down,
her tiny breasts pressed flat against the
stone and her knuckles white. Ten
feet, sixty feet, twelve hundred feet
and more — he went down like brave
thunder, and then she saw the remote,
plunging speck toss something over its
shoulder. She screamed with all her
might, sickened with longing and ter-
ror:

“Vincent !”

I lost count of the doubling and redoubling, for they
were moving now, with a whine of hunger.

A Scientist Divides

by Donald Wandrei

Illustrated by Elliot Bold

I SHALL always remember him as
he stood there by the slides and
microscope that summer afternoon
three years ago. His face was enkind-
led with the glow that is present only
at the immediate moment of a great
discovery. He held the beaker in his
hands and looked at it with all the
loving pride of a mother studying the
first babe.

Yet it was characteristic of Dr.
Weylith that his eyes wore a far-away
look. It was never the discovery that
mattered so much to him, as it was the
potential and far-reaching effects that
future generations might enjoy.

Dr. R. L. Weylith was then one of
the country’s brilliant biologists. He
had made a name for himself by his
exhaustive researches into the nature

ASTOUNDING STORIES

of cells and cell structures, chromo-
somes, haemin, and more esoteric
minutiae of the human organism. He
was one of the men who developed the
hyperoxygenic treatment for schizo-
phrenia. He successfully isolated, iden-
tified, and photographed the first of the
nonfilterable viruses. Yet he had
scarcely reached thirty when he received
the highest honor, the most distinguished
medal, that science bestows on its own.
And he was only thirty-five that after-
noon three years ago.

A slender, quiet man, he carried him-
self with a curious and disconcerting
air of alert detachment, as though he
saw everything, but could not pause in
his progress toward ultimate goals.
Always tolerant, gracious, and generous,
he encouraged and helped others even
when his own work suffered. Gifted
with a keen mind and a vivid imagina-
tion, he took advantage of every
educational facility to specialize in the
methods of science, making biology his
particular field.

He was no mere grubber of facts.
His work was precise, elaborately docu-
mented, but also linked to the great
dreams that lured him on. He was that
rare and enviable type — the pure
scientist in his technique, the pure
visionary in his mind, the successful
joiner of both in his work.

Does this sound as if I was writing
his epitaph? I am. Or I hope I am,
since I cannot be positive.

Our relationship was somewhat un-
usual but readily understandable. I
had long been interested in all phases
of modern science, but without the
aptitude or the interest in specializing
in any given field. I was fascinated by
the possibilities of new discoveries and
naturally turned to writing. Professor
Weylith, on the other hand, confined
his published work to material that
would bear the strictest and most tech-
nical scrutiny.

It was difficult for me to find laymen

sufficiently versed in various categories
of science to talk to, and it would have
been suicidal for Weylith to expound
some of his more fanciful ideas to his
colleagues. But the two of us got along
famously, for in him I found a man I
could deeply admire, and in me I hope
he at least enjoyed an enthusiastic
listener.

I advanced' the idea that caught his
imagination and set him off on the
years of investigation which culminated
that afternoon. Now I regret ever
having mentioned it.

For the years that I knew him, I
saw him regularly and discussed every-
thing above the sun and beneath the
clouds. I was the only person who
knew the nature of his last experiment.
It is just as well that he permitted no
one else to share the secret. The world
would be a less complacent globe.

Yet in spite of our numerous con-
versations, I did not go with a full
understanding of what might ensue that
afternoon when Dr. Weylith telephoned
and asked me to drop in at his labora-
tory. I had originally thrown off my
suggestion as the germ for a fictional
romance.

“Science tells us,” I had once re-
marked, “that the higher orgemisms all
evolved from a single-celled animalcule
or amoeba which represented the first
life-bud eons ago. From that humble
beginning came vertebrates and man.
Why may not man himself now be only
a similar basic cell out of which even
vaster and more complex organisms will
evolve in the course of ages? Imagine
what would happen if a superscientist
treated man as such a cell and then, in
the laboratory, constructed from one or
dozens of men a creature of the year
one billion!”

That was the thought which fired
Weylith’s imagination, but not quite in
the way I believed. Through nearly five
years of work, he kept his real objective
to himself, while discussing my sugges-

A SCIENTIST DIVIDES

tion as if he was making progress on it.
Since the idea was merely fictional, and
rather far-fetched, I did not seriously
think he would turn it into reality.

Then, too, he was noncommittal over
the phone. He merely suggested that I
drop around if I would like to see some-
thing interesting. From his casual tone,
I suspected that his request had to do
with the topic we had often discussed.
I decided he had probably made an
important new discovery in the matter
of cellular structure or an allied subject.
I knew he had been making extensive
researches of late in cosmic radiations,
chlorophyll, haemin, hormones, and
glandular secretions.

IT WAS about three in the afternoon
when I walked into his laboratory and
saw him with the beaker in his hands.
The westward^slanting sun poured a
flood of light through the windows, hot
light, molten light, but the air-condi-
tioned laboratory was cool and dustless.
The window-staves split the light into
rectangles. They left a cross on the
side of his smock. His face seemed a
little tired, evidently from days and
nights of arduous work, but weariness
never prevented a quick smile of
welcome.

“It’s worth being half cooked in that
sun just to bask in the coolness here,”
I remarked.

“Is it hot out? I hadn’t noticed.
But come over and look at this.”

I made my way between the tables
of chemicals, slides, tissues, tinted
specimens, microscopes, and other
apparatus.

“What is it ?” I asked when I reached
his side.

He held the little beaker toward me.
Inside it nestled a drop of opaque,
reddish-gray stuff. There was only a
drop, but nothing ever before gave me
the creeps like that tiny nodule. It
seemed to quiver with a strange and
restless motion. It elongated, con-

tracted, rested, made an abortive gffort
to roll up the side of the glass toward
Weylith’s hand.

The reflected sunlight glistened on it.
It looked pinkish, like an albino’s eyes,
slimy, like an angleworm’s tip. It sug-
gested in no single or specific way such
diabolic and distorted anthropomorphic
traits, so sinister a human nature in so
subhuman a way, that I made no effort
to take the beaker. The drop almost
mesmerized me.

I bent over, and it slid up the side of
the beaker so swiftly that I shrank away.
The globule fell back, palpitated faintly
and restlessly like a heart endlessly
beating for a body to clothe it.

“What is it? I can tell you right
now I don’t like it, I won’t touch it, and
I refuse to have anything to do with it.”

Weylith smiled. “That is why you
write fiction. You romanticize things.
I investigate them and find out their
nature. Then they lose their mystery
and neither repel nor attract. They are
reduced to facts.”

“Yes, but then you romantitize them
by planning their ultimate possible use
in the furthest future world. You
haven’t told me what this. is?”

Weylith looked at the beaker thought-
fully. He shook it a trifle. The drop
raced madly around the spot where his
hand held the glass. “Hungry little
devil, isn’t it? It hasn’t eaten since I
made it.”

“Made it? Out of what? What for?
How?”

“Not so fast! I’ll go back a little.
Do you remember the day, years ago,
when you suggested the idea that man
might be only the basic cell of an im-
mensely more complicated organism yet
to develop”

“Of course I I said also that it would
be wonderful if some scientist could
only speed up the cell and produce over-
night the homunculus of the year one
billion. Don’t tell me that this is it?”

Weylith shook his head. “Hardly!

ASTOUNDING STORIES

No; that isn’t quite the line I was fol-
lowing, Your suggestion captured my
fancy, but I went after it in a diflferent
way. After you left that time, I thought
a good deal about the idea. Science has
accepted as truth the evolution of multi-
cellular organisms such as man from an
ancient, original, single cell. You sug-
gested that man himself might be, so to
speak, only the real basic cell of which
the primeval cell was only a part, and
that out of man might evolve a complex
being almost beyond our power to
envision. Right?”

“Yes. Then what?”

“It occurred to me that a reduction
instead of expansion might be equally
interesting for speculation. The simple
cell produced, through countless muta-
tions, man, and was itself changed.
Why, therefore, might not man carry
within himself a different kind of cell,
substance, or essence, which was his full
being expressed in its least compass?
I don’t mean sperm, of course; I mean
something that was the minimum re-
finement of blood, bone, tissue, organs,
glands, secretions, and so on ; perhaps
inert, but at least possessed of the
capacity for life; a modern cell that
was the counterpart to the ancient, sim-
ple cell.

“Perhaps it might be found in ex-
tracts of each part of him, interfused
into a unit. Perhaps he contained a
hitherto-undiscovered gland or secretion
that had the latent capacity of summa-
rizing his nature. Perhaps one could
construct a centimeter model of man,
from tiny parts of the brain, the nervous
system, the skeleton, the muscles, the
organs, the blood system, the glands, the
hair, the cartilage, and imbue it with life.
Perhaps one might take cells and subject
them to enz>Tnic, metabolistic, biochemi-
cal, or other changes that would convert
them into what might be called homo-
plasm.”

“Homoplasm?” I queried.

“To distinguish it from protoplasm.
And here it is.”

I LOOKED at the malignant little
drop with intensified curiosity and dis-
like. To tell the truth. Dr. Weylith’s
comments had partly escaped me, I was
so fascinated by the actions of the
globule. I heard without comprehension.
One graphic picture is mightier than a
thousand words. I saw the result of
bis experiment, and I had only half
ears for the cause, the explanation.

But I managed to ask, simply for lack
of any more intelligent comment that I
might make: “What does it do?”

Weylith answered candidly! “I don’t
know. I isolated homoplasm this morn-
ing, and I haven’t had time to go
further. It appears to be sentient,
animate, and locomotory, as you can
see. What its- other properties are, I
don’t know. I can’t even say for sure
that it is what I believe it is. It may
be just a particularly voracious bit of
protoplasm-plus, without any individual
or special characteristics. I called you
because I thought you would be inter-
ested in any case, since it was your
suggestion that set me on my way.
There are a good many tests yet to be
made.

“For instance, how long will it last
in its present state? Does it require
food? If so, what kind? If not, why
not? Are its actions spontaneous or
deliberate? Instinctive or rational?
Can it exist without air? And by what
magic is it replacing the energy that "it
burns in its motions? It has hardly
stayed still a minute in the last eight
hours, yet it is as active as at creation.
Is it directly converting natural or arti-
ficial light, or both, into energy? If so,
it is the most wonderful little machine
devised up to now and opens visions
of immeasurable energies that can be
harnessed for man.

“What everlasting dreams hover
around this simple bit of homoplasm!

A SCIENTIST DIVIDES

Just to look at it, you wouldn't think
that this one globule is the full com-
plexity of man reduced to a minimum,
would you?”

“No,” I said frankly. “I wouldn’t,
and I don’t want to think so. idea
wasn’t so hot after all, if this is what
it boiled down to.”

“On the contrary, it was a brilliant
speculation. One thing you writers of
science-fiction possess that most scien-
tists lack is freedom from fact. You
can start out with almost any concept,
expand it to its most imaginative limits,
even take liberties with science, and
produce a vision of the years to come.
But we who work in the laboratory must
alwa}s offer substantial proof, back up
every step with fact, and document our
theories or claims by evidence that can
stand the laboratory test.

“Domination by fact is both science’s
greatest safeguard and its worst drag.
X discovers a cure for cancer. He
knows it is a cure, but cannot prove it
immediately. He tests it for years in
every conceivable way on all sorts of
animal tissues before he announces his
results to the public and permits appli-
cation to human sufferers. In the
meantime, tens of thou.sands of victims
die.

“Or take homoplasm. I know what
it is. I’ve a good understanding of
what it will do, and what its functions,
properties, and actions are. That’s why
I keep it tightly stoppered. But I could
no more announce its discovery to the
world without perhaps irreparable loss
of prestige now than I could make time
run backward.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you even
succeeded in doing that,” I remarked,
and sincerely. “All I can say about
your homoplasm I’ve already said. I
refuse to have anything to do with it.
You could extol its virtues till dooms-
day, and I still wouldn’t like it. See
how it's quivering? It’s been squirting
around the beaker like a crazy thing

while you’ve been talking. It goes wild
every time it gets near your fingers
and that seems to be as often as it can.
No. I’d get rid of it if it was my
choice.”

“You may be even nearer the truth
than you think,” Dr. Weylith answered
ambiguously.

A ray of sunlight slanted through the
glass of the beaker and turned the
living stuff to a drop of scarlet flame,
glistening like a bead of blood, beautiful
in its own evil way. I shrugged my
shoulders in dislike of it.

“Put it up on that shelf out of harm’s
way,” Dr. Weylith suggested with a
hint of good-natured banter we often
indulged in.

“Not I, thanks. I wouldn’t touch
that beaker for a million dollars. Or
a thousand, anyway.”

Dr. Weylith, his sensitive features
again wearing a rapt expression as his
dreaming mind was absorbed by the
homoplasm and fascination over the
endless fields of conjecture it opened,
stood on tiptoe and placed the beaker
on a shelf.

I looked out of the window and saw
the sun burn across pavements with a
glare that bubbled asphalt and sent the
heat waves dancing.

A faint tinkle and a heavier thud
came from behind me. I whirled
around.

Dr. Weylith sprawled on the floor,
face up. A gash laid open his right
forehead. I sprang to his side, saw
that fragments of glass were imbedded
in the wound, decided instantly it was
a case for medical care. He must have
lost his balance in attempting to place
the beaker on the shelf, and it fell,
shattering on his forehead and knocking
him unconscious. I cursed myself for
my reluctance to heed his request, even
though it had been made in jest. The
flow of blood was steady, but not large.

For fear of driving the splinters of

ASTOUNDING STORIES

glass in deeper, I merely placed a clean
handkerchief on the injury to act as a
clotting agent while I raced to the phone
in another room.

I CALLED the office of Dr. Wey-
lith’s personal physician, but was told
he was in the midst of an operative
case. To save time, I then called an
ambulance and asked for immediate
service. Weylith’s name worked magic.
I could expect the ambulance in fifteen
minutes at most. I hurried back to
the laboratory.

It does not seem to me that I could
have been gone more than a half
minute, but perhaps the telephone de-
layed' me two or three minutes in all.
It retJly makes no difference since there
is nothing I might possibly have done
had I returned sooner.

When I entered the laboratory and
rounded the tables obstructing my view,
I received a shock of horror such as I
hope may never be repeated. Weylith’s
head was gone. The upper half of his
clothing sagged, but a squirming and
hellish motion affected it from some
amorphous substance within. Almost
as fast as my eyes could follow, the
rippling spread down the torso and
limbs. I was paralyzed in my tracks. I
remembered the pinkish nodule, but that
dreadful thought only served to stun
me more.

Then, out of that loose and shapeless
heap of clothing slid a mass a million
times the size of that original drop of
ooze; a reddish-gray pulp of heaving
and awful life which left not the tiniest
bone behind, not the least particle ex-
cept the glass splinters and the now
flat clothing. The stuff quivered
damnably, shivered as in a wind, split
in two by simple fission. The sun
imbued those two mounds of jelly with
a smoky and sinister glow. And now
they began to eddy and swirl and ex-
tend upward. ' They elongated here,
contracted there, filled out elsewhere.

assumed new form of terrifying signi-
ficance.

“No! No!" I shrieked.

Before me stood two identical Wey-
liths, naked, each half the size of the
original man. There was a duller luster
on the faces. In the eyes there was
nothing whatever of Weylith’s intelli-
gent and friendly g;aze. They were
dangerous, menacing, primeval eyes,
and they stared at me. I wondered
madly if each creature had only half
the brain of Weylith, or no brain at all.

The homoplasmic drop, having ab-
sorbed every germ of Weylith’s body,
had divided, and each mass had built up
a new body from the image of man
that was inherent in it. That repro-
duction was faithful even to the cut
on the forehead. And now a stranger
occurrence deepened the spell upon me.

The two Weyliths took a step for-
ward, but out of the cuts oozed a
rapidly swelling flood of the pink stuff
that deliquesced the bodies almost as
soon as they had been formed.

The sweat trickled from my face, but
my eyes burned and my forehead was
hot, dry.

The two heaps quivered hellishly
again, and I thanked the stars that no
one else had witnessed the transforma-
tion. Or was I mad? Perhaps cor-
roboration was the saving grace I needed
lest I find this to be only a hideous
hallucination. And still I stared, utterly
incapable of motion.

The strange life puddles stirred
eerily. They narrowed in the middle
and separated into four. They swirled
into mounting shapes until four grisly
phantoms, four pigmy Weyliths, glared
at me from eyes ferocious with basic,
subhuman, food desire. The four
demons tottered toward me, their pink-
white eyes blank of any intelligence.
They were eyes neither of man nor
vertebrate nor fish, neither insane nor
sane — just hungry eyes.

I acted as I certainly did not wish

A SCIENTIST DIVIDES

to act. I wanted to leave that labora-
tory forever behind. Something drove
me, some subconscious but lightning
intuition of what might happen, some
unreasoned desire to do what my dead
friend would have preferred. I sprang
to the door, locked it, whirled around.

Already the four Weyliths were head-
less. They stood in their tracks like so
many decapitated monstrosities, while
the streams of ooze pouring down took
with them the chests, torsos, limbs,
every vestige of those abominable
entities.

The speed of the cycle increased per-
ceptibly and proportionately as the mass
diminished. The two scientists had
divided into four and the four into eight
in only three fourths the time that the
scientist had first divided. The life of
the eight little things was correspond-
ingly shorter, but they moved a step
closer.

Then, always more rapidly and
horribly, the fission and reproduction
of form, the deliquescence and fission
again, swept through the cycle. No
nightmare was ever more gripping or
terrifying by its distortion of the
familiar than this travesty of the highest
type of human being.

With every fission, the characteristics
of the body became coarser, less human,
more corrupt and devolutionary, until
there was not even a remote re-
semblance. Weylith, divided and re-
divided, swept into the ceaselessly
changing reduction of this appalling
life-cycle, became so many naked little
animals ravening for food.

They closed in on all sides. I lost
my head. I kicked at one of the new
knee-high creatures. My shoe plowed
into it, and it clung like glue. Panic
seized me, but the return to plasmic
state caused the stuff to fall to the floor
by gravity.

I dashed for the window and leaped
on a radiator coil. It was two stories
to the cement sidewalk.

I FACED the laboratory. It
swarmed with the ever-increasing horde
of that ever-contracting spawn — 128,
256, 512 — I lost count of the doubling
and redoubling. They were moving
now. They made wailing cries. A
shrill and abysmal moan of hunger
swept from their ranks when they
assumed their momentary and minute
imitation of man’s estate. A sucking
sibilance filled the laboratory when they
returned to the homoplasmic stage of
their brief life-cycle. Tummocks of
reddish jelly. Little ratlike things of
human semblance. Surge toward the
radiator. Diliquescence. Smaller balls
of homoplasm. Retreat into slime,
advance into anthropoid form. I saw
a million centuries bridged in seconds.

For a few minutes I felt compara-
tively safe. But I had only begun to
consider the peril of my situation when
a new menace rose. A great swarm of
the viscous plasms turned into inch-high
caricatures of Weylith at the foot of the
radiator. Instantly they locked, scram-
bled up, shot a living pyramid toward
me. The wriggling mass with all its
thousands of intertwined limbs and pin-
point eyes shining with baleful luster
fell short of me by so small a distance
that I was on the verge of leaping out
of the window. Then the column col-
lapsed, and I shivered, for I knew the
next cycle would not fail of its objective.

What could I do? No matter what
the cost, I could not escape from the
laboratory, could not loose that de-
moniacal horde upon the world. Some-
how I must destroy it. Somehow

I must save myself and obliterate
every trace of these subhuman monsters.
And every moment the task grew more
difficult. I was still reasonably certain
that the stuff could not get out. The
laboratory had a concrete floor. The
windows were weather-stripped, and the
door soundproofed.. The ventilators
were in the ceiling. But if the things
became much smaller, they might seep

ASTOUNDING STORIES

out through invisible cracks and crevices.

The column of myriad, terrible little
beasts, like human beetles, shot toward
me again in a rising geyser. The near-
est table was fifteen feet away. I
leajsed in panic. The column swerved
instantly. Even terror did not give me
strength enough. I landed on a cluster
of the plasms and felt them squirt in
all directions as if I had splashed in a
puddle.

I bounded to the table. A jar of
hydrochloric acid stood on it. I sloshed
the acid over my shoe, wiped it with a
piece of waste cloth. My hands burned.
I poured the container on the floor.
The acid spread, ate its way in a widen-
ing pool. A thin but sharply reedy wail
crept up. The whole laboratory was
paved with a film of ceaselessly undulat-
ing slime that alternated with antlike
things, save where the acid lay.

There came a jxjunding on the door.
"Ambulance for Dr. Weylith !”

“Just a minute!” I shouted, and made
no effort to move.

In the stress of that moment, my
senses must have become preternaturally
keen, my mind clear as seldom before.
I was in so tight a spot that no matter
what happened, I must lose out some-
where. My only choice lay between
trying to save my own skin for what it
was worth, or accepting all risks and
doing what I could to annihilate every
last mote of the homoplasm.

The beating on the door repeated.
“Open!”

“Dr. Weylith has gone elsewhere !
ril be there in a few seconds if you
want to wait!” I called.

On the next table lay an electric fur-
nace, gas burners, thermite and cordite.
And a blowtorch. I don’t know what
Weylith used them for. The moment
I saw them, I sprang over, pumped the
torch, and lighted it. The flame hissed
forth with the roaring sound peculiar
to gasoline blowtorches. And suddenly
1 felt protected.

I seared the floor. Foot by foot, I
went over the laboratory. I burned my
way ahead in swinging swaths. I
scorched the legs of every table, the base
of each wall. All surfaces in contact
with the .floor,. I subjected to that
crisping flame. And a dim, hideous,
murmuring cry squealed constantly in
my ears, punctuated by the pounding on
the door. There was a sickening smell
in the air which the ventilators were
powerless to carry off.

Nauseated, shaking like the jelly I
had destroyed, and on the verge of
collapse, I finally extinguished the blow-
torch and tossed it on a table. I scarcely
cared what happened now. Then I
opened the door.

PROBABLY most people are fa-
miliar with the incidents of the next six
months. The circumstances were highly
suspicious. I have no complaint against
the authorities for trying to establish
a case against me. It was out of the
question for me even to hint at what I
had seen. I took no one, not even the
lawyer, into my confidence.

The case became one of headlines
through no fault of my own except the
desire to protect the memory of Wey-
lith, who was as dear a friend as I ever
had. Perhaps I was foolish. I am in
no position to say. But I feel absolutely
certain that the case would have been
far more notorious and given over to
infinitely greater reams of speculation
had I tried to explain exactly what
happened.

So I botched the tragedy. I told the
ambulance men that Dr. Weylith had
already been taken away. I would not
tell them where. The police became
inquisitive, questioned me. They wanted
to know why I had called a physician,
then an ambulance, why the laboratory
floor was seared. Weylith was listed
as missing. Suspicion of murder de-
veloped.

A SCIENTIST DIVIDES

Doubts of my sanity arose when I
gave confused explanations or none
at all. There were detentions, special-
ists, grillings, examinations. A grand
jury investigated and handed up a
presentment. But there were no wit-
nesses, no proof of homicide, and no
trace of a body. Eventually the indict-
ment was quashed for lack of evidence.
I was a free, but discredited, man.

That was nearly three years ago.
And what saved me as much as any-
thing was an occasional rumor that
Weylith had been seen in other parts
of the country.

To me, this is the most heartbreaking
aspect of the tragedy. I did my best
to give Weylith the absolute oblivion
he would have wished, but I must have
failed. I thought I was thorough, but
evidently I was not thorough enough.
The division and subdivision and fission
of that strange plasm must have reached
such minute degrees and such immense
numbers that the blowtorch was in-
adequate.

Perhaps some of the plasm adhered
to my shoes in spite of the acid. Or it
may have crept up the walls. Or a few
fleck.-i might have found some opening
invi.sible to human eyes and thus made
their way out of the laboratory. Even
so, I think the stuff might have worn
itself out — if vertebrate forms had not
been susceptible to wounds and injuries ;
for the homoplasm would apparently
never have spread had it not been for
direct blood openings.

A child, scratched by brambles, was
seen to cross a field near Greenwich one
morning. She was never seen again.
A caretaker pulling weeds claimed he
looked up and saw a naked man,
brutally resembling the missing Dr.
Weylith, suddenly appear in a field.
The child would have reached there
about that time.

But the caretaker unfortunately added
that he was so shocked that he rubbed

his eyes. When he looked again, there
were two naked men, and they seemed
smaller because they were making
toward a clump of woods. His story
would have been completely discounted
except that the child’s clothing was later
found near the spot.

A butcher in Chillicothe left his store
one noon to deliver an order around the
corner. When he returned, he saw a
strange little naked boy climbing out
of a window. He ran shouting toward,
his store and asserted that a gang of
the brats swarmed from every opening.
His narrative would also have been met
with disbelief except for the fact that
not an ounce of meat remained in his
shop, with one exception. Cuts, loins,
quarters, whole carcasses, liver, even
suet, were stolen. Only sausage in
casings were left. He thought he had
recently seen a picture of the first youth,
but he could not remember where.

At various times, in the years since,
and in widely scattered parts not only
of North America but of the world, the
missing Dr. Weylith has been reported
seen. A legend grew up about him,
rivaling that of Ambrose Bierce. Some-
times the news dispatches carried items
about his reappearance simidtaneously
in opposite countries of the globe, and
in places thousands of miles apart.

And w'ith di.sturbing frequency, the
press also carried accounts of phantom
scavengers that looted food markets; of
hordes of debased, naked, wild boys who
vanished as suddenly as they were seen,
leaving no trace behind them ; of anthro-
poid, adult footprints that successively
and mysteriously became youth’s foot-
prints, children’s steps, the marks of,
babes, and finally ended in mid-fields.

A party of explorers came upon an
African village where stew was still
cooking over a hot fire. But not a trace
of any man, woman, child, or animal
was found, nor were the villagers ever
discovered. There w’ere dwindling foot-

ASTOUNDING STORIES

prints, no other clue. I alone knew what
had happened, and I preserved my
silence.

TO THIS lengthy, and still-growing
list, I will add but one more incident,
the incident that caused me to record
these facts for the guidance of people,
before I, too, disappear of my own
choice.

The episode occurred last night. It
had been a hot day, and I went for a
lo«ig walk in the country. As evening
drew near, I found myself sauntering
down a narrow road that wound between
pastures and fields and hills and an
occasional farmhouse. The sun hung
just above the horizon, and was already
half set, when I paused to rest against
the wooden fence inclosing a pasture.

Cows munched in the field. Most of
them lay under the shade of trees on
the far side of the field, but a couple
of Jerseys grazed near by and lazily
switched' off the attack of flies and gnats.
It was a peaceful, rural scene that I
admired.

Then one of the Jerseys bellowed.
The other moved away. The rest of the
herd shifted uneasily. The first Jersey
mooed plaintively. Sickness and nausea
overcame me when I saw it melt down
into a swelling puddle, but horror kept
me watching though I could have pre-
dicted what was coming. The cow
ceased struggling, and its eyes glazed

while the fore half of its carcass still
remained, but that, too, swiftly dissolved
into the reddish heap.

Then that shapeless pile tod< form,
and against the dark and lurid western
sky stood outlined the gigantic and
naked figure of a man. Man? It was
a dreadful parody, a grotesque and mis-
shapen monster, of bestial head, apelike
hands, and animal feet, whose body was
only faintly human in nature, and of a
blackish hue.

For seconds the giant stood there, be-
fore plodding sluggishly toward the rest
of the herd, and it lowered its head to
utter a sound, a throatless and primeval
food howl, the like of which I never
heard before. The huge shape collapsed
into slime, and the slime fissioned, and
I fled on my way while twin but smaller
monsters rose behind.

There is nothing more to add. There
is nothing that I or any one can do,
now. The homoplasm carries within it
some instinctive or hereditary or vesti-
gial image of man. Because its human
manifestations are invariably cast in the
likeness of Dr. Weylith, I must assume
that he created the original stuff from
his own body. So long as one drop of
that now world-migrated homoplasm
survives, so long will there be theft of
animal food throughout the globe, and
so long will the everlasting figure of Dr.
Weylith be re-created, though it be till
the end of time.

FROST, by Donald Wandrei, is the feature story in this month’s
issue of CLUES, now on the stands. It introduces Ivy Frost, Sc.D.,
the most fascinating character since Sherlock Holmes, and com-
bines the best qualities of the best science- and detective-fiction
into something wholly new and absorbing. Don’t miss it.

In bis careless, kindly way, _ ^

horse and almost demolished the old boy himself.

Dragon’s Teeth

A story that might have been true!

West

Illustrated by Elliot Dold

“The kings of Atlantis became the gods of
Greece and Rome.” — Ignatius Donnelly in
"Atlantis, the Antediluvian World.”

O F COURSE I realize that the
proper place for State secrets
is in the dusty archives on
Mount Olympus, or better yet at the
bottom of the sea. On the other hand,
this story about Cadmus, the dragon’s

teeth salesman, and the sad fate of his
daughter Semele is simply crying to
be told. Since it can’t be printed in
Atlantis without creating a scandal. I’m
going to deposit this manuscript in the
comer stone of the Pillars of Hercules.

The whole thing started when Posei-
don, who was a very sick man at the
time, burst into one of his ungovern-

ASTOUNDING STORIES

wreck of which he rescued the engi-
neer. I couldn’t learn anything about
the actual battle from his brains, since
he didn’t know much except that it was
a zone of force that did the real dam-
age, and that the two strange ships
were small and spherical.

“The third lead is the shortness of
the period of time that elapsed between
his battle with the Fenachrone warship
and the destruction of their planet.

“Now, from the above hypotheses, we

are justified in concluding that Seaton
succeeded in enlisting the help of some
ultrapowerful allies in the Green Sys-
tem, on some planet other than Os-
nome ”

“Why? I don’t quite follow you
there,” put in Loring.

“Eve got it straight so far,” assented
the aid.

DRAGON’S TEETH

ing under our protection ChrcKius and
Rhea, the emperor and empress of At-
lantis. If you want war you shall have
war.”

“Search the square! Let no one
escape, invisible or not!” yelled Posei-
don.

The soldiers deployed in perfect for-
mation, but they might as well have
tried to catch smoke in a net. The
Pharaoh had escaped.

And what is more, the inhabitants
of Atlan, who had been taking this all
in, despite the fact that they could not
understand the words, had lost their
attitude of reverence. The spell of our
gfodhood was broken. Hell was about
to pop.

MARS dispatched a company to the
palace, which was a sizable marble
structure peeping out from among sa-
cred groves halfway up the mountain.
It was deserted. While we had blus-
tered, the royal family had departed.

Much as I hated to do so, as official
reporter of the expedition I had to radio
back to Mars the mistake which we had
made. The message resulted in a sharp
reprimand from the secretariat of the
Anarchiat. Poseidon never recovered
from the ignominy of this. As I have
said, he had become seriously ill on the
voyage to Earth. After the reproof
had been received, he left the details
of our defense to Zeus and Mars and
took to his bed in one of the rooms
of the palace. Three months later he
was dead.

Now don’t misunderstand me. Zeus
is a fine fellow. The inheritance of
the Pitarship didn’t go to his head, and
we remained the best of friends and
drinking companions. The only diffi-
culty is that when Zeus is in his cups
he is so full of stories about his own
love affairs that I can never get a word
in edgewise about my own romantic en-
tanglements.

But as Pitar he erred on the o{^-

AST— 5

site side from his dead brother. He
treated the barbarians with the utmost
consideration and gentleness. Naturally
they didn’t understand this after the
iron rule of Chronus and Rhea, and we
had our backs to the wall on numerous
occasions during the months which fol-
lowed.

Then Zeus lost no time in getting
himself involved with a girl named Juno
whom we had found alone in the palace
when we invaded it cn the day of our
arrival. She claimed to be a princess,
but court scandal has whispered for
years that she was only a servant who
saw opportunity knocking at the gates
and dressed herself in her mistress’
robes while the soldiers were break-
ing in.

Anyway she completely captivated
Zeus with her plump, dark beauty and
great cowlike eyes. In no time at all
she had bewitched and married him.
She was insanely jealous, of course, and
started stirring up trouble at once.

By this time Plu-Toh-Ra had aroused
most of the people of the Mediterranean
basin against us. The Titans, as they
called themselves, felt that we were
usurping their right to live in mud huts,
wear animat skins, and starve to death
by the thousand during seasons of crop
failure. The fact that we had started
schools, and were introducing machinery
and scientific agriculture, interested
them not a whit. We had profaned
their sacred groves and driven their
emperor into exile. That was enough.

Of the ten kings of Atlantis, only
Cadmus of Greece remained friendly.
He was a simple, smiling soul, and his
daughter was one of the most beautiful
girls I have ever seen. Poor Semele!
If it hadn’t been for Zeus’ fine figure
and curly red hair and beard, perhaps
I would have a different story to tell.

Cadmus was driven out of his king-
dom by Plu-Toh-Ra’s allies as soon as
he refused to join them against us, so
he, his daughter, and a few thousand

ASTOUNDING STORIES

half -starved retainers marched to Atlan
and threw themselves upon our protec-
tion.

Mars was glad to have recruits of
any kind, of course, for reenforcements
had not yet arrived from home. But
King Cadmus got into his bad graces
almost at once when, in trying to learn
how to use one of our ray guns, he shot
the general’s best horse from under him
and almost disintegrated the old boy
himself.

And Semele got herself cordially
hated by Juno by her open admiration
for Zeus.

I tried to argue the little blue-eyed
blonde out of what I could see was
going to be a tragic love affair, not
hesitating to emphasize my own attrac-
tions the while. But she merely smiled
quaintly at me and shook her pretty
head.

“You’re a nice boy. Mercury,” she
said. “I like you. But the Pitar — I
worship him. He’s a man!”

Well, I knew then that things had
gone too far for me to meddle and went
back to help Vulcan and Hercules, our
engineers, who were constructing a ra-
dio power station on top of Mount
Olympus. This station, which they
called Bab El, pr the Thunderer, would,
when completed, g^ve us enough f>ower
to blow Plu-Toh-Ra to powder. But
at present we were hard pressed to
fight off his horde of barbarians, even
though they were armed only with ar-
rows and spears.

Cadmus was always hanging around
the tower, asking fool questions and
getting in everybody’s way. He, poor
fellow, had decided that we were mak-
ing magic which would soon transform
us into fire-breathing dragons or some
such foolishness. Hercules was always
stumbling over him in unexpected
places, while little hunchbacked Vulcan
wept and tore his hair every time that
the Greek knocked over a test tube or
tangled up our wiring. At last we had

to ask him politely to leave. To avoid
hurting his feelings, we told him that
the dragons were about to be loosed
and that he might be eaten up by them.

THE BATTLE between Juno and
Semele, however, was the thing which
worried me most. Things came to a
head one night at a banquet in the
palace during which Semele sat with
her eyes riveted on the Pitar, lost in
worshipful admiration. During the
meal Juno got more and more nervous,
knocking over her glass of nectar, bit-
ing her nails, and then jumping up and
sweeping from the room with as much
dignity as her plump little person would
permit.

Later I heard her laying down the
law to her husband.

“Either that girl goes, or I do!” she
shrieked. “I won’t have a shepherdess
mooning at my husband all the time.”

“But, my dear,” protested the Pitar.
“She is the daughter of my guest and
ally. King Cadmus. We need their
support desperately just at present.

Perhaps afterward You know very

well that she means nothing to me.”

“And you need my support, too!”
stormed Juno. “If I should go to the
Pharaoh and tell how weak you are,
with your ray guns almost used up and
all that ”

“You do that and I’ll break your
neck; or, better yet. I’ll have Vulcan
build you a special room in the palace
where I can lock you up when you have
a tantrum,” snorted the Pitar, whose
patience was about exhausted.

Apparently this threat had its effect,
for after that Juno treated Semele with
honeyed sweetness. At the same time
she developed a positive aversion for her
husband, and several times I caught her
looking at him in a way which gave me
the creeps. If I had only known the
vengeance she was plotting!

The planet Mars by this time was on
the other side of the Sun from Earth,

DRAGON’S TEETH

and there wasn't the slightest chance
of getting a supply ship through for at
least a year. The allies had practically
bottled us up in Atlan, and it was vi-
tally necessary that we obtain a source
of power at once.

For this reason Zeus ordered me and
Hercules to take the space ship and go
in search of a deposit of pitchblende
from which we could extract the radio-
active mineral, orichalcum, which alone
could charge the generators at Bab El
tower.

Our experiences on that expedition
would fill a book. We headed south,
flew high over Sais, the capital of
Egypt, and buried ourselves in the Af-
rican jungles where geological condi-
tions seemed best for our purposes. I’ll
not bore you with our adventures which
have little to do with the development
of this tale. Suffice to say that we dis-
covered a rich vein of ore near the
place where the city of Sim-Bab-Wee
later was built.

With our primitive tools it took three
months to mine a shipload full of the
stuff, so that I was completely out of
touch with events at Atlan by the time
we returned.

I could see as we approached that
the expedition was in a bad way. The
armies of our enemies were camped on
the plain completely surrounding the
city. Catapults and battering-rams
were being built for an attack on the
walls. That would all be changed, of
course, as soon as we had orichalcum
enough to recharge our guns. Provided
that we were not overwhelmed and
wiped out in the meantime.

But the situation at the palace was
even more tense. The halls and porti-
cos of tliat placid structure were sim-
ply seething with intrigue. Juno had
become Semele’s bosom friend and was
apparently intent on furthering her ri-
val’s love affair. Mars was going
around like a bear with a sore head,
muttering tliat the best defense was an

attack, but that Zeus was so fascinated
by a pretty face that he had forgotten
all about the war going on. Cadmus
was still prattling about the dragons
that we were soon to turn loose on our
enemies, and Vulcan had worn himself
to a shadow completing his power sta-
tion.

I got the low-down from Apollo, the
Pitar’s secretary, as we were sipping
nectar in one of the town’s musty old
taverns.

“I tell you, Mercury,” said the hand-
some lad as soon as he had finished a
couple of drinks, “there’s a lot of funny
things going on around here. Juno is
positively urging Semele on to get Zeus
to make a fool of himself. Why, the
old boy has even got to thinking that
he’s some sort of god! And with all
of us probably only a week away from
the .graveyard.”

“Meaning what, ^actly?”

“Plu-Toh-Ra has sent us an ultima-
tum that we must surrender within one
week or he will attack the walls. We
have only about ten charges left for each
of the soldiers’ ray guns. That should
dispose of several thousand of our ene-
mies, but after that we’re through, be-
cause it will mean hand-to-hand fight-
ing in which we will be outnumbered
ten to one. Due to the difference in
gravitation, our soldiers are no match
for the Earthmen, whose muscles are
accustomed to greater strains than
ours.”

Apollo ordered another drink and
wept into it.

“And then I heard Juno talking to
some one the other day,” he went on.
“But when I came into the room no-
body was there. And I heard Vulcan
complain that somebody or something
has been prowling around Bab El. It’s
that damned Egyptian, I tell you. I’m
in favor of getting on the ship and
going home.”

“Fine chance for that, with Mars be-
hind the Sun and the ship’s fuel tanks

ASTOUNDING STORIES

almost empty. No. We’ve got to stay
an(l^ fight.”

WHEN I recovered from my hang-
over the next day I decided that it was
high time I took a hand in affairs. So
I hurried up to Bab El where I found
Vulcan dancing up and down in glee.

“I stopped him that time!” he chor-
tled as he handed me a photograph
which showed our old friend Plu-
Toh-Ra entering the door of the power
room. “I recalled that according to
the old legends, the priests of Mu were
able to make themselves invisible to
ordinary light by the use of drugs.
Well, after my laboratory had been ran-
sacked on two occasions I flooded the
place with ultraviolet light and rigged
up a camera and ray gun operated by
an electric eye. You see the result.
How he escaped death, I don’t know.
But we’ll be able to detect and catch
him the next time he shows up.”

“If he does show up, which isn’t
likely,” I agreed. “Did he do any
damage ?”

“Not that I can discover. Just stud-
ied the layout. He must have consid-
erable scientific knowledge. Of course
he realizes that he is defeated as soon
as we get the generators going, so I
expect him to attack at once now, ulti-
matum or no ultimatum. Thank
Heaven he seems unable to make his
soldiers invisible.”

“Have you got our long-range guns
in position? Maybe there’s enough ori-
chdcum in the tanks of the ship to
operate the generators.”

“I thought of that, but it can’t be
done in time. There’s only enough fuel
for one flash, and that wouldn’t even
warm up the guns. Now, if we’d only
thought of mining the plain outside the
walls we might have used the power
wave to explode them. It’s too late for
that, too. I guess we’re finished.”

I left Vulcan mumbling curses and
walked back to the palace, pondering

over what he had said about mining the
plain. Maybe it wasn’t too late after all.
I ran across King Cadmus on the way
down. As usual he asked me when we
would be ready to turn the dragons
loose on our besiegers.

“Cadmus, old fellow, you’re a gen-
ius!” I yelled.

His words had given me just the idea
I had needed. I ran the rest of the
way to the palace, dragging the king
behind me.

I found Zeus sitting in his office tell-
ing Juno and Semele what an impor-
tant man he was.

“Listen to this !” I commanded as
soon as I got my breath. Then, turn-
ing to Cadmus: “Where did you get

that story about the dragons?”

“Why, it is common knowledge
among the Titans. They say that you
are making the dragons to eat up the
whole Mediterranean valley. Of course
I know that they really are gentle drag-
ons who will only kill your enemies. I
tried to explain that, but Plu-Toh-Ra
drove me out of Greece before I could
make them understand.” His funny
little goat’s face was all twisted up with
earnestness.

“How would you like to slip out of
the city and tell the Titans that the
dragons are all dead? That we didn’t
make them right or something.”

“Dead!” Woe overspread his face.

“Yes. Dead. I’ll give you a sack
of their teeth to prove it. These teeth
have magic powers, though. Whoever
has one of them in his possession can-
not harm us. I want you to go out
and sell them to the allied soldiers as
souvenirs. Then, when they attack the
city, we will walk out unscathed. See
that every soldier wears one around his
neck. You can tell them the teeth bring
good luck or something.”

“Why — ^why— yes ! I’ll say that I de-
serted. They’ll believe me. I’m re-
lated by marriage to most of the nine
other kings, so I won’t be killed.”

DRAGON’S TEETH

“Fine ! Now run along and get ready
to sneak through the lines. I’ll see you
to-night and give you the bag of teeth.’’

“Wliat kind of a cock-and-bull yarn
was that?” Zeus burst out when the
king had shuffled out. He was rocking
with laughter.

“Hadn’t we better talk alone ?” I sug-
gested.

Juno bristled, and the Pitar hastened
to avert a scene.

“Not at all, not at all!” he said.
“These girls know all my secrets.
What’s brewing in that crazy head of
yours ?”

“Just this: Those dragons’ teeth will
be duralite bombs with fuses which can
be touched off by a radio-power wave
flash from Bab El. We’ve just enough
orichalcum to turn over the generators.
We’ll blow the allied army off the map.
Maybe Cadmus can get Plu-Toh-Ra to
wear one of the things, too. Tliat
would solve all of our problems. On
second thought, though, I guess he’d
better steer clear of the Pharaoh, who
might get suspicious.”

“But why tell Cadmus all that non-
sense about dragons’ teeth?”

“Because he’s so dumb — excuse me,
Semele, but I must talk frankly about
your father — that he’d be sure to give
himself away if we told him the truth.
As it is, I believe that he can get every
soldier to buy a tooth. Then, when the
attack comes, Vulcan can pull the main
power switch and, poof, away goes our
enemy without knowing what hit them.”

“Well, it sounds silly, but it might
work,” said the Pitar.

“I think it’s wonderful!” cried Juno,
jumping up and clapping her plump
hands together.

I almost fell dead. Juno always had
disliked and distrusted me, and those
were the first words she had ever said
in my favor.

“But,” she hastened to add, “I think
it should be my husband’s privilege to

throw the switch. After all, he is leader
of the expedition.”

“But Vulcan built the tower,” said
Zeus, trying to be fair, although I could
see that he would die rather than let
any one else turn on the power.

“What do you think, sweet Semele?”
purred Juno.

“Why, of course Zeus should do this
thing, whatever it is. I do not quite
understand all this about dragons and
bombs, but if it is a way for the great
Pitar to appear in all his glory, no one
should stand in his way.”

That settled it. Vulcan, Hercules,
and I worked most of the night con-
structing bombs in the shape of the
most frightful-looking molars tliat we
could imagine. We made several molds
and squeezed the things out by the thou-
sand. This was comparatively easy
since duralite is a doughy substance
which hardens on contact with the air
and is harmless unless detonated by a
radio wave of just the right length. We
had brought plenty of it from Mars.

THE NEXT morning Cadmus
sneaked out of one of the smaller gates
of the city before sunup to begin his
work among the enemy.

Then I had a hunch. “Vulcan,” I
said, “can you rig up one of those ultra-
violet lights above all the entrances to
Juno’s chambers? I don’t trust that
lady, and Apollo said he heard her talk-
ing to scMTie one he couldn’t see the
other day.”

The engineer looked at me shrewdly
and set to work. We had some diffi-
culty setting up the lights without being
detected, but after that the Pitaress
couldn’t have talked to a ghost without
our knowing it.

Next we transferred what little ori-
chalcum remained in the lead fuel tanks
of the space ship. That left us abso-
lutely at the mercy of the Titans in case
our scheme failed, but we liad to take
the chance. Then we waited until Cad-

ASTOUNDING STORIES

mus should have had time to plant the
magic teeth.

Plu-Toh-Ra must have got wind of
something, however, although I am sure
he could not have talked to or spied
upon any one in the palace or the tower.
Anyway, he launched his attack with-
out warning on the morning of the
third day.

We were warned by the crackling of
the sentries’ guns and hurried to the
walls. Outside, the crude battering-
rams, covered with green hides to pro-
tect them from being set on fire, were
being pushed into position. Back of
them the motley barbarian army was
moving forward, the sunlight sparkling
on their swords, chain armor, and spear
points.

“Vulcan says he won’t be ready to
turn on the power until late afternoon,’’
said Zeus, turning to Mars. “Can we
hold them off until then?’’

"Of course !’’ scoffed the general.
“My men are spoiling for some blood-
letting. Each one is worth ten of those
ruffians.” His face had lost its morose
expression and was positively shining
with eagerness.

But despite his confidence, the battle
was one-sided almost from the start.
Before our coming, Allan had been a
holy city, due to the fact that on Mount
Olympus was situated the oracle of
Uranus and Gaea, the Titan god and
goddess of Heaven and Earth. Its
crumbling old walls were not made to
stand an offensive by twenty-five thou-
sand men. The Titans knocked holes
in them at will.

I should have been helping Vulcan,
but I couldn’t resist the temptation to
get into the melee. Girding on a sword
and seizing a gun, I went down to the
main gate, where the fighting was hot-
test. Later I admost wished I hadn’t.
Despite the fact that we towered over
the barbarians, we were not their equals
in hand-to-hand fighting, due to the
fact that our muscles were made for

the lighter gravitational pull of Mars.

Again and again I saw one of our
gigantic soldiers hacked to pieces by
what seemed to be an insignificant op-
ponent.

By noon things looked bad indeed.
Our guns were exhausted, and our de-
pleted forces had been driven back to
the base of the mountain.

I was engaged with a fur-clad heathen
— to be honest, he was on the verge of
carving out my liver — when a detail of
the Pitar’s private guard, which still
had a few charges left in their guns,
came to my rescue.

“Zeus says for you to stop mucking
around down here and get back where
you belong before you get killed,” said
the captain as soon as we had broken
clear from a mob of yelling Titans.
“Vulcan needs your help.”

I was feeling pretty groggy as the
result of a crack over the head, but I
hurried up to the tower as fast as my
wabbly legs would carry me. There I
found the engineer putting the last
touches on his wiring.

“Haven’t had time to test the thing,”
he said as he wiped one grease-smudged
hand over his grimy face. “We’ll have
to stake everything on one throw of
the dice. Where’s Zeus?”

“Here I am !” boomed our leader as
he appeared at the doorway of the
power room. “I’ve been arranging for
the defense of the palace. Is every-
thing ready?”

“Everything’s ready,” answered Vul-
can a trifle sourly.

I knew that he wanted to push down
the big black-handled switch himself.

ZEUS threw back his scarlet cape
with a magnificent gesture and stood
forth in his shining war harness, every
inch a ruler.

“Where are Juno and Semele?” I
couldn’t resist asking that.

“Juno’s having hysterics in her room.
Semele is taking care of her.”

DRAGON’S TEETH

He glanced at me sharply, and his
face flushed a little. His manner was
considerably subdued as he stepped for-
ward to grasp the switch.

“Wait, Zeus, wait!”

The three of us whirled as we heard
this cry and the sound of running feet
on the path outside.

“Don’t touch that switch!”

It was Seniele’s voice. A moment
later, wild-eyed and disheveled, but
looking more beautiful than I had ever
seen her, the girl hurled herself through
the doorway.

“What’s the matter, child?” Zeus
caught her in his arms as she reeled
and seemed about to faint. “Has the
palace been taken?”

“No. • Not yet. It’s Juno! She

says ” Semele gasped for breath.

“Says what, my dear?”

“She says Oh, she was jealous

of me and wanted to kill you. She
says — Plu-Toh-Ra did something — ^to
the switch. Says if you close it — ^you
will be killed.”

“Nonsense!” Zeus patted the sob-
bing girl on the shoulder. “That bar-
barian knows nothing about such
things.”

“But he was in here!” cried Vulcan
wildly. “I haven’t had time to check.

Maybe Wait! Let me look.

Won’t take ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes will be too late.”

I had glanced out of the window and
seen that the palace below us was en-
tirely surrounded by a tangled mass of
fighting men, while at least a hundred
skin-clad warriors were clambering up
the path toward the tower.

Gently but firmly, Zeus tore Seme-
le’s clinging arms from about his neck
and stepped forward. He was pale,
but his hand did not falter as he reached
upward toward the switch.

Then, before any of us could inter-
fere, Semele leaped before him.

“I love you ! I love you !” she cried.
“You must not die!”

With those words she grasped the
handle and pulled it down.

There was a blinding flash of light,
a rending explosion, then darkness.

When I recovered consciousness I
was lying outside the door of the
wrecked power house from which the
blast must have hurled me. Beside me
were Zeus and Vulcan, but of Semele
there was no sign.

Scorched, bruised, and bleeding, I
staggered to my feet. A quick exami-
nation convinced me that the others
were only stunned. Then, dreading
what I might see, I forced myself to
look toward the palace.

Not fifty feet away lay a still-writh-
ing mass of flesh which was all that
remained of those who had been run-
ning toward the tower.

At the palace the clash of arms had
been replaced by a deathlike silence,
broken only by screams of agony. A
few surviving barbarians were running
toward the walls of the city as though
the devil himself were after them.

Cadmus and his dragon’s teeth had
done their work well.

AND THAT is all of my story — or
almost all.

During the rest of the day the bar-
barian army melted away across the
plain, leaving arms, equipment, and
siege engines in wild disarray.

But that night, as we stood survey-
ing the ruins of Bab El under which
poor Semele was buried, there came a
great noise like the sound of wings
above us, and a bundle fell out of the
sky and rolled to our feet.

“You have defeated us this time, O
men of Mars,” snarled the harsh voice
of Plu-Toh-Ra. “But we will come
again. As a seal upon our promise, we
give you this token.”

The wings passed on.

Slowly the Pitar knelt and unwrapped
the dripping package.

It contained the head of Cadmus.

Famine on Mars

A unique novel of the spaceways,

You*ll like this frank story of the
struggle of a race of men — to live

Illustrated by M. Marchioni

I TURNED and threw my weight
against the cover-lid that closed oflE
the main body of the station disk
from the passageway in which I stood.
The round metal slab slipped in place,
making a little clicking sound. Now I
was cut away from the thousand small
noises that were always within hearing
inside the station. I was alone, looking
over the edge of the void into space.

For a few seconds I remained still,
holding my balance with difficulty, my
body just inside the entrance to the
long narrow corridor between the sta-
tion and the signal tower. I felt a rush
of nausea shimmer over me; as always
when I stood here on the lip of the
abyss I was seized by vertigo, shaken by
a sensation of being forever falling.

Looking down, I seemed to plunge
infinitely into the vast hole that was
space. I was hemmed in on all sides
by panels of glassite so perfectly
transparent from within as to give the
impression that there was nothing, noth-
ing at all, between me and the aching
emptiness of the void ; through the thick
walls of the runway the stars quivered
like a million small bright fires, and the
sky loomed around and above and below
me as an endless pall of heavy black
smoke.

I drew a quick, rasped breath into my
lungs. How glorious to be a living
thing in the midst of all this unstirred
immensity ! This was a spectacle and a
pageant that could not fail to hold me
fascinated, no matter how often I had
seen it before. I had been serving as

signal operator NX-4 at the station for
more than a year. Earth reckoning.
Twice every twenty-four hours, meas-
ured by Earth time, I passed this way,
going on shift and coming off; yet al-
ways while the spell lasted, it had power
to stun me into silence.

The station seemed to hang in space
like a giant’s lantern, put here to light
the void between the Earth and her
satellite moon ; no comparison could
have been more true; without the con-
stant ebb and flow of beam signals, re-
layed from Earth to Mars and back
again, there could have been no traffic
in the void.

This corridor of glass, slanting up-
ward to the transmitter tower, was a
bridge seemingly suspended in nothing-
ness, flung out in airy periphery across
the caverns of infinity. It was godlike
to stand aloft at an elevation between
the swinging worlds and send a glance
with casual freedom across ten million
airless miles and far beyond. The
Earth turned in a measured creeping
ellipse to one side, green and bulging
at its middle, oddly like a ripe limefruit
hung in the heavens, ready to be
plucked. Standing there, I felt I could
have reached out my fingers and jerked
it down.

By contrast the nearer moon seemed
small, shriveled and dead and old; a
sour white grape on a black vine. Be-
yond was Mars.

Mars — ^he was old, with the polar
caps round shiny spots on his bald pate.
The caps were small this year, pin

He was then completely enveloped by the gas screen be bad thrown
out from the belt. He was as if incased in a suit of mobile armor.

ASTOUNDING STORIES

points of pale white against a crimson
background; it seemed to me they had
grown visibly smaller during my terms
of service at the station, and they
shrank in size with every summer. Each
time the Sun’s hot blaze melted the ice
crusts and sent water gurgling through
the framework of the canals, some
moisture was lost upward into the thin-
ning atmosphere, dissipated into free
space. Life was hard on Mars.

I turned my eyes away presently, per-
force shook off the grip of this ever-
returning fascination. The spell that
had taken hold on me, being woven of
light stuff, snapped in a breath. I
glanced at the small chronometer
strapped to my right arm, noted that
it was time for me to give relief to the
man who had been on watch in the
tower for six hours gone.

There was irony in the thought, in
the consideration of time. Even out
here, where there was no change
through millenniums, where space and
time were one and eternal among gal-
axied worlds, man had brought his in-
struments to measure out the creeping
flow of his little life.

I SHRUGGED and climbed the run-
way that went upward at an angle to-
ward the signal cabin. The tower

poised above me like a stalking big-
headed giant set in brooding fixity to
watch over the flat disk surface of the
station. The great transparent sphere
that held the infra-beam projector was
raised atop three great metal legs that
formed a supporting tripod.

As I came slowly closer, I could see
the narrow halo of luminous glare that
hung about the glassite globe ; this
ragged gleaming was the only outward
sign visible to the eye that gave evi-
dence of the straining power that clicked
back and forth between the planets from
the relay circuits here.

At the far end of the passage in

which I walked stood a second huge
round slab of dull metal, blocking off
the runway. After I had passed this,
and shut it behind me, I would be in a
world set apart from the gray bulk of
the station. I shoved my foot against
a square plate in the floor of the cor-
ridor ; the plug shifted on screwed
threads, swung wide.

At first glance the big crystalline
sphere seemed almost empty. That was
far from the truth. There was no
necessity for clamoring complex mech-
anisms here; giant strength was com-
pressed at need in a small space and at
need swiftly released. Directly opposite
to where I now stood was a thin, tall
cylinder, wrapped about by flat layers
of racked coils through which a hum-
ming stream of power swiftly flowed.

The cylinder was transparent, with
silvery gleaming electrodes inset at top
and bottom; between the electrodes a
yellow spark jumped back and forth, a
chattering, prisoned thing. The slight
buzzing as the activating catalyst en-
tered the power conduits was the only
mechanical sound in the room.

There was economy of space here
as nowhere else in the station ; yet, in
the last analysis, all the ponderous ma-
chines that crowded the engine rooms
in the lower section of the station, all
the ranks of photo-cells packed in tight
rows beneath the spread collecting mir-
rors, were in existence to build up,
from solar radiation, the energy that
was finally focused here and then flung
out in space on a single tight beam.

This was the midway house between
the Earth and the Moon and Mars;
within the sphere all the messages that
shifted from ship to ship across the
void, from Earth to Moon and Moon to
Earth and Mars to Moon and Moon to
Mars, were caught and relayed here.
The messages went silently and surely,
invisible passengers riding carrier
waves too short for reception by the
retina of the human eye, traveling on

FAMINE ON MARS

the station’s transmitter beam deep into
infinity.

NX-S, my relief, was on duty when
I went in. His back was hunched, his
shoulders formed the arc of an intent
semicircle ; something was coming
through.

When I bent and touched him he gave
no sign that he recognized my presence
in the room; he sat very still, with a
crouched intensity, pressing the trans-
lator tightly against his head.

Must be important, I thought. I
waited with some eagerness for him to
turn. The message he had been getting
came to a close, and I knew when it was
ended, but he didn’t turn. There was
no visible indication when the message
ceased, of course, because reception was
all in terms of the infra-beam and only
intelligible to a wearer of the translat-
ing headgear, but I sensed the instant
that it stopped.

Long ago I had learned the trick of
watching the thin purple halo which
clung about the condensing coils; when
a message came in strong, the halo was
agitated by a slight shimmering, when
the signals faded, the halo paled. The
difference in its gleam was so little that
to any other than NX-5 and myself it
could not have been noticed.

Suddenly NX-5 took the headgear
off and got up. I felt abruptly tense.
Something was very queer all at once. I
expected him to grin and give the trans-
lator to me, but instead of handing it
across, he laid it down very slowly in the
control seat and stood heavily facing
me.

THE WAY he looked was strange
to my eyes. He had always been very
dark, with a slight greenish cast to his
skin and a thin brittle body so fragile in
appearance that sometimes I had roused
his mock anger by saying that he must
have Martian blood in him to be so
like a china cat. There were not many
Martians on Earth, but I had seen a

few, and they were all like that — ^brittle
and thin-eyed, and a brackish green of
skin from the activating rays of their
burning desert sun.

Something in the atmosphere made
them that way. They had a cat’s
strength at their queer graceful sports,
but they were thin-skinned and easily
broken in body. It wasn’t hard for an
Earthman’s blow to bring their yellow
blood. They shattered easily, like china
cats.

Something was bothering NX-5, I
knew. I could always tell when he was
stirred. We had been mates all dur-
ing the year and more I had been at the
station. We had been close. I looked
straight at him.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s have it,
whatever it is. I can read you plain,
old son. Something’s out of kilter.”

“No,” he insisted. “There hasn’t
been a thing come in since you went
off shift last trick.”

“Don’t lie to me,” I said, a little
brusquely. “No need for that. I’m
too old a hand to fall for guff. Out
with it, straight!”

“No; it is nothing, I tell you,” he
said.

He halted, twisting his fingers to-
gether, a sure sign of his distress. It
was a trick he had; a rather gruesome
way of bending his fingers into a gro-
tesque mass. He always had been ter-
rifically limber; he could twist his body
into unimaginable shapes. That was
another Martian trait about him, and he
admitted he’d learned it on Mars.

There were some who said that the
Martians were made of live rubber, be-
cause they had that power of altering
their own shapes. It was strange, that
they could be so brittle of body and
yet so malleable; rubber gave, instead
of breaking; the Martians had a quick
breaking point.

“You’re hiding something,” I said
suddenly. “Nothing funny going on,
is there?”

ASTOUNDING STORIES

I stared at him. His eyes hit mine
with blazing force. I felt a sudden un-
controllable desire to shiver.

Something in me whispered: “Look
sharp !”

I experienced a deep revulsion of
feeling. In that instant the relationship
between us was changed around, and
became all at once wrong end to. Be-
fore this moment we had been friends.
It was impossible not to be drawn to the
man, and I had been attracted. He had
a curious restrained magnetism, as if
he was always under a rigid self-control.
He carried with him an aura of potential
power. Beyond that, beyond some air
of mystery that hung about him like a
scent, he was very likable, and I had
freely responded.

Martian or not, it made little differ-
ence to me then. I was not one to be
too scrupulous of the race prejudice
that was so strong on Earth. Out here
in space you got a sort of different
slant on things; you saw that all men
were brothers, on whatever world they
might be; little creatures on two legs,
crawling and climbing upward toward
the stars.

“You’re not going to answer?” I de-
manded.

“I have answered.”

“You’re lying.”

He looked at me with agony in his
eyes. Yet I got the strong feeling that
he had something big to do and that
he was going to do it, even if he had
to hurt me and a few others.

I sat down in the wide, comfortable
operator’s seat. I looked the keyboard
over slowly, put my hand out toward
the black release key. Then glanced up
sidewise at NX-5, to where he was still
standing as if not yet ready to begin
doing what he had to do. It seemed to
me that he had moved a little closer.

“I can get that message from the rec-
ord tape,” I said.

“Nothing there.”

“You know what’s there,” I said. “I

still hate to believe you’d try to hold
out on me. I’d like to get the dope
from you.”

He suddenly gave in. I could see it
wasn’t easy ; the recession of blood from
his face was clearly visible. He came as
near to getting white as it was possi-
ble for him to get. The skin beneath
his eyes turned a greenish gray, and his
breath puffed in ragged bursts. His emo-
tion reached me. I could suddenly un-
derstand then that it was something big
that was troubling him.

I said ; “You’d better talk. Five.”

He smiled. “What will you do to me
if I don’t talk?”

“I’m giving you a chance. If you
don’t take it. I’ll have to put you on the
report. And I’ll get the message from
the tape, anyway.”

“You will not find this message on the
tape. Four.”

I looked at him, almost stunned.
“You mean — you broke tape before re-
ceiving ?”

“Yes.”

“What’s this. Five?” I said. “What
is it?”

He stared at me very soberly. “You
are my friend, aren’t you?”

I said: “Yes. Of course.”

But just then I wasn’t.

He pulled his shoulders back and
lifted his big head. I gulped a breath.
It was the first time I had seen him
standing up straight ; he’d always
walked with an intent stoop. Now I
knew what he had been attempting to
hide, what the mystery had been about,
what he really was, even almost word
for word what he was going to say.

II.

IT WAS then I got my first good
look at him. He was very tall, almost
a head taller than myself, and I am
over six feet and a half. His chest,
expanded to the limit, was gigantic. It
was like a stellite barrel, greenish and

FAMINE ON MARS

glistening. The blood had returned to
his face in a flood, and I saw how dark
he was. He was green and black. He
stood there like a dark statue, slightly
tarnished.

“First I must tell you,” he said. “I
am from Mars.”

“I know',” I said. “I’ve thought so
for quite some time.”

“But you weren’t sure. Nobody here
at the station has been sure.”

“That’s true,” I said. “But now I
know, and they’ll all know.”

“If you tell them,” he said.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Does it make that much difference ?”
he asked.

I thought a minute.

“No; I don’t suppose so. It makes
no difference at least to me. I’m not
one of those who thinks the shape of a
man makes his superiority. I’ll grant
you your right to live.”

“Thank you,” he said, almost hum-
bly. “You are my friend, but no man
of Earth should be a friend of mine.”
“Why not?”

His face Vas altogether different
from what it had been a moment ago.
It was touched by the premonitory
shadow of a dark storm.

“I have been disloyal to myself and
those I represent in revealing myself
even this far. Yet I could not help it.
You have been very free with me. I
was always sure you would understand.
Yet it was forbidden for me to make
you my confidant. It is forbidden
now.”

“Who forbids it?” I demanded.

He blinked at me. “Friendship does
not enter into this. There is no true
friendship between us of Mars and you
of Earth. There cannot be, while we
have long and bitter memories.”

“All justice is, of course, on your
side,” I said.

“I think so,” he agreed quietly. “This
hatred is not our doing. It has been
forced on us. W’e have tried to un-

derstand you, but you have not tried to
understand us. There never will be
comradeship between us so long as you
of Earth are bound to tlie slavery of
the Combine.”

I shifted uneasily. Like every other
man of Earth who was willing to recog-
nize tlie truth in the silence of his hearty
I knew that the Martian was right and
we were wrong, and yet it hurt to recog-
nize these things. The Combine had
ruled so long tliat it seemed almost
sacrilege to admit that it might not al-
ways be in the right.

I was shaken by an inward struggle. I
was tom by two distinct and separate
wills. One was wliat had been born in
me, what had been inextricably entan-
gled in the structure of the germ cell
from which I had been created; the
other remembered all the long years on
Earth when I, in common with every
other Eartliman and Earthwoman, had
been flexed and sliaped by the insistent
pounding of the Combine; my brain
had been conditioned to believe what it
was desired that I should believe, and
nothing beyond that. Yet there was a
kernel of selfhood within me beyond
the power of any outside force to
change, and this something cried out
against injustice and tyranny.

But it was a dim spark, a weak thing,
a voice crying in the wilderness, and it
lost the battle.

“Whatever is, is right,” I said.

MY THROAT was harsh, burned by
those words forced out of me by the
power of directed habit. With my eyes
I pleaded that NX-5 would understand. '
But mental scansion was not one of the
Martian’s abilities with the unaided
mind, and he did not receive my un-
spoken message. He heard only the
words I spoke.

“The Combine is right,” I said. “You
are wrong. You of Mars have rebelled
against all order, against all reason,
against all true citizens of the common-

ASTOUNDING STORIES

wealth of men. It is you who have re-
fused our friendship. It is you who
have refused to bow to what is writ-
ten in your destiny, to take your place
as an inferior race. You must pay.”

“I know,” he said pityingly. “You
learned that by rote. Haven’t I heard
your children chanting it at the condi-
tioning schools: ‘They must take their

place as an inferior race ’ I don’t

blame you for what you believe. It’s
not your fault. It’s not your blind-
ness. I am going to ask that you will
sometime forgive what I am going to
do now. I am forced to this.”

“Stay away from me,” I said. “I
warn you, if you come any closer to me.
I’ll fight like hell.”

“Listen,” he said in a savage voice.
“Let me tell you the story as I see it.
You’ve been looking at the thing from
one side all your life. You’ve never
gone around in your mind and looked at
the other side, because you’re a little bit
afraid of what you’d see.”

“I’m not afraid,” I said.

“Aren’t you ?” he said. “Then listen :
The Combine has never forgotten and
never forgiven the fact that the Mars
colonists of twenty years ago were
strong enough to rise and assert their
independence of Earth’s domination ;
there was no war, because open battle
has not been a weapon of civilized man
for the last five hundred years; there
has even been no outward antagonism,
but the hatred is there, under the sur-
face. There have been so many little
things.

“The Combine has never ceased to
stir up bitterness against us. They
withdrew all their water generators
from the valleys of Mars, just when
those valleys were fast springing up into
the gardens they once had been, fast re-
gaining the fertility and the beauty and
the warm splendor that characterized
them in the days of the old race.

“But the generators went, all at the
same time, all without warning, without

giving us any chance to prepare; the
Combine owned the secret, and the se-
cret could not be revoked; they would
not tell us how to make water from
sand, but they gave licenses for the gen-
erators that we kept in our hands, and
later those licenses were quietly re-
voked. None except the most trusted
agents of the Combine had ever learned
to operate those machines, nor did any
know the details of their plans, nor how
they worked, nor why. So there was
no one left on Mars who knew the se-
cret of creating clean water, and water
we had to have if we were to live.”

He gulped a breath, then let the air
sing out of his lungs again. I could
not take my eyes from his dark face.
He went on :

“The first year after the generators
were gone the valleys lost their splen-
dor, the vegetation rioted and then fell
again into dry red dust, and the dust
broke into scarlet spores that filled the
atmosphere in a giant cloud and choked
the lungs of all creatures that had to go
on taking in air, if they were to go on
living.”

He stopped.

I whispered : “And the second year ?”

“The second year there was a
drought more terrible than any other
in the memory of the new race. Half
the cities built by the ancient canals
were left empty of their people. They

died — unpleasant deaths The third

year the population of Mars shrank
from fifty millions to one million and a
half ; at this figure it was found that
men could live, even on the little water
there was left. The canals were cleared
of debris, restored again after the
lapse of empty centuries; the ghosts of
the old race must have smiled when the
great valleys echoed once more to the
gurgle of water, as the ice caps melted
and sent liquid streams circulating across
their red world.”

“And since then ?” I asked hoarsely.

“Every year since there has been

FAMINE ON MARS

less water in the canals, and the men of
Mars have had less with which to wet
their lips. We have heard that there
have been some on Earth who have
made protest against our slow cruci-
fixion, who have called the death of all
those millions that died with the plea
for water on their lips, a blasphemy
against the brotherhood of man. But
not many: And you have done nothing
— nothing.

“We have waited on Mars, thinking
with every new year that surely you
would throw off the yoke, that you
would come to us and bind up our sore

wounds and quench our thirst

Nothing. The Combine has always been
too strong. And those who rule it have
been so wise.

“You have learned what they have
wanted you to learn ; you have believed
as they desire you to believe. The Com-
bine has waited and watched, while
Mars has been slowly dying; it was
their secret thought that the day would
come when Mars, when we of Mars,
would crawl home begging for a little
water — ^if any lived to return from a
dead world. That day has come.”

I stared at him. Then I asked slowly :
“What do you mean ?”

“Another drought.”

“No!”

He nodded. “A drought, and worse
than that,” he said; his face went that
dirty gray again, his hands clenched.
“Worse than anything you could be-
lieve. There’s no water left on Mars
at all.”

“That isn’t true, Five,” I said des-
perately. “I saw the shine of the polar
caps when I was coming across the
bridge to the tower. They were pretty
small, yes, but plainly visible. There
must be some water left.”

He shrugged. “Of course — a. little, a
very little. Enough for a very delicate
refinement of torture. So little that the
bottoms of the canals are just barely
wet, and men kill each other gladly to

lick the sweet mud where it has been
damp, to eat the ground where it has
turned to slime. There is famine on
Mars. No water means no food. It is
the worst hunger of all — the thirst for
water. It comes on you — it comes on
you like madness.”

“That’s what the message was about,
then?” I asked. “From Mars, to. tell
you ?”

He said simply: “Yes.”

THERE was a thick silence. My
brain was cloudy and confused. The
sharp struggle within me was repeated.
This time I was not sure which side of
me had won.

I muttered : “I’ve been thinking about
what they must be going through out
there. What must it be to endure?”

“I have felt that torture,” he said.
“Yes. I have gone without water for
many days. It is worse than you think.
You cannot imagine what it is until you
have — known it.”

I sat there ; I couldn’t move. I stared
at the thin cylinder of the transmitter,
watched the purple halo climbing over
the stacked flat coils, caught the rapid
flicker of the yellow spark leaping be-
tween the two electrodes. But I was
not seeing the things that were before
my eyes.

I saw a million dark faces convulsed
by the same agony and tom by the same
unspent desire — the lust for water. I
saw men clawing with bruised hands
into the muck of the canal bottoms,
chewing slime for the moisture there
was in it, sucking up filth and holding
it in dry mouths to assuage the torment
an instant longer.

I saw the wide bewildered eyes of
soft-skinned women ; I knew there
would be great sacrifices, great loves,
great tortures endured for the sake of
easing the torture of some one who was
held in reverence or in adoration. There
would be pitiful things on Mars when

ASTOUNDING STORIES

there was no more water at all — ^pitiful
and terrible things.

Abruptly, a kind of madness seized
me. I got up.

NX-5 looked at me. “What are you
going to do ?”

“There are two generators here,” I
said. “We’ve got to go to Mars, you
and I and all of us here. We can take
them the generators. They’ve got sci-
entists who could analyze them; when
they know how these two generators
work, they can build more. This — this
slaughter can’t go on.”

He shook his head. “I must do this
alone. I shall probably fail. I have
long ago given up any hope. But I
must try, as others before me have tried,
to break the grip the Combine holds
over Mars. If I am beaten, I am ready
to die. You are not of Mars. You do
not want to die. I must do this thing
alone.”

“Alone?” I said. “You can’t do it
alone.”

The change had come in me again.
For a little while I had known the
truth, and I had ruled my own brain;
now I was in the grip of something
stronger than my will.

“If I can’t be with you. I’ll be
against you. You’re my prisoner. Five.
It might be better if you wouldn’t try
to fight.”

The Martian put his hands on his big
hips and threw his huge head back and
laughed. I had counted on his doing
that. His throat was exposed, his eyes
were not on me; standing there loose-
limbed, his head lifted at an angle, he
was vulnerable to attack. I leaped, my
hands reaching out for his neck.

With contemptuous speed he jerked
around on the balls of his lithe feet. My
fingers scraped past harmlessly; I lost
my balance, stumbled, fell. I expected
to feel him above me, crushing me.
Nothing. I got up again, came at him.
He had moved back two or three steps,
and I remember his looking at me with

something like grave pity in his fine
eyes.

He had something in his right hand
that had not been there before. It was
a small round thing like a bird’s egg,
blue in color with small white dots. He
threw it toward me. It went up in the
air in a winged arc, dropped at my feet,
and burst. At the instant it struck I
recognized what it was and jerked my
body to one side.

I was not quick enough. The thin
blue shell of the gas capsule broke with
a brittle snapping, and let free the poi-
son that curled in it. A tall jet of thick
mist leaped up against my face, burn-
ing and moist like steam.

HI.

THE VAPOR surrounded me and
clung. It seemed to kiss my body as if
there was some special attraction in me
for it. It spread from my feet upward,
moving with a soft, undulating motion.

Half a minute I stood there, para-
lyzed by the suddenness of the happen-
ing, wrapped about in the pale choking
mist. My brain began to turn, and my
vision blurred. Then came a sensation
of falling and a shock of harsh contact
as my body toppled to the floor.

I had fallen on my back. The Mar-
tian stood over me, a queer frozen glare
in his eyes. I did not for an instant
lose consciousness during this time, nor
did I during the time that was to come.
But I couldn’t move. No matter how
strongly I urged my muscles to respond,
no matter how terrifically I struggled
against the grip of the strange easy leth-
argy that now held me, it was of no use.
Lying there shivering, I could under-
stand how insects feel, captured and
pinned mercilessly to a specimen case.

The thin film that had spread a mist
over my eyes slowly vanished. Shortly
I could see as well as I had ever been
able to, hear as clearly, talk as plainly;
but only the muscles around my jaw

AST-5

FAMINE ON MARS

and mouth were freed. Beyond my
tongue, there was nothing that I had
any power to move.

“You won’t bring this off, Five,” I
said, staring up at his unblinking glare.
“You can’t do this to every man in the
station. You’ve no one to help you,
and there’s ten of us all told. You’re
bound to lose.”

The Martian twisted his lips into a
queer little smile. “Am I?” he said.
“Maybe you’re right. But don’t be too
sure you know just what I’ve got in
mind.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “You don’t
seriously mean you’re going to try to
knock out all of us here in the disk.
You’ll lose, anyway. If you’re intend-
ing to take the station to Mars, I tell
you it can’t be done; not without a
crew.”

He put his head back again and
laughed, this time with no fear that I
could take advantage of the movement.
I ached to fit my hands under the edge
of his jaw ; if it had been possible then,
I would have killed the Martian where
he stood and thought myself a cosmic
hero. But it wasn’t possible. He’d
seen to that.

“I won’t need a crew,” he said. “I
have no idea of taking the station all
that distance — close to forty million
miles. It’s too slow, for one thing;
there’d be too many on Mars who would
die before I could get the disk there.
It’s simpler than that. I’ll use Stillson.
He’s the Combine’s representative at
the station, isn’t he? He’ll come here,
and I’ll do to him what I did to you,
and maybe a little more. I think he’ll
gladly tell me what it takes to build
one of the generators.”

I laughed at him. “What if he
doesn’t know? It’s an even chance he
won’t. Maybe they don’t trust even
him with that. They don’t trust any-
body.”

The Martian grinned. “No; but you
see I’ve been working in the dark for a

AST— 6

long time, here and on the. Earth, and
I’ve found out a few things. Stillson
knows, but he doesn’t realize that he
knows. It’s a combination of hypnotism
and forced telepathy. They’ve ordered
him to wipe it from his conscious mem-
ory, and he’s obeyed ; but it’s there in
his brain, hidden away.

“It’s got to be in him somewhere, or
he couldn’t change the set-up in the gen-
erator coils when something goes wrong.
I’ve watched him make repairs. He
goes at it like a sleepwalker, but he
doesn’t make any mistakes. IK knows.
I’ll dig it out of him.”

“Nothing you could do would make
him talk. I’ve heard you of Mars are
proficient in the art of torture, but there
are a few people even torture won’t
touch. Stillson happens to be one of
them.”

THE MARTIAN smiled and bent
soothingly toward me. He was holding
something between his fingers ; it flashed
a tight beam of light into my eyes. I
saw a thin circular plate of silvery
metal, delicately perforated around the
edges by millions of tiny openings. He
began to turn it. I heard a low insistent
humming in my ears. The disk seemed
to leave his fingers, to rise slightly in
the air, to hang suspended over noth-
ingness.

Splashes of light rebounded from the
reflecting surface of the metal, were
split and broken in passage through the
perforations. The small sparklings of
divided light grew and united into a
single narrow thread of terrific bright-
ness. A mist covered my eyeballs ; tears
rose in them, took shape, altered form,
then dissolved again. The thread of
light became a brilliant needle pene-
trating into my brain, fingering its del-
icate way to Ae deepest caverns of un-
consciousness.

“What do you think now ?” the Mar-
tian whispered.

I looked up, bright-eyed. My vision

ASTOUNDING STORIES

had never been so clear, so keen, so sure.
My antagonism toward the green-
skinned man was altogether gone. I
had more than strong faith that his way
was the right way. I knew.

‘Tve changed my mind,” I said. “I
see now that it might be possible, if
you can get him to come here.”

The bright disk had vanished, and I
had forgotten already that I had ever
seen it. I waited for the words of
NX-5.

“He’ll come,” the Martian said softly.
He glanced at me. “Effect of that gas
I gave you is wearing off. In a min-
ute or two you’ll be all right again.
Then I want you to stand here beside
me when I use the direct C-tube. Still-
son may want to ask you a few ques-
tions. You’ll answer. Understand?”

“Yes,” I said.

NX-5 went over to the communicator
tube. It was a round, screened opening
in the glassite wall, coimecting with all
the compartments of the station disk. It
was used for audible transmission and
reception only ; it was old-fashioned and
unreliable. Every year the director was
going to change it in favor of a more
modern system of visi-plates, but so
far he had never given the order. Queer
to think now what a difference it might
have made if the director had given the
order! What changes might have re-
sulted in the destinies of Mars and
Earth if Stillson could have seen the
face of NX-5 while he was talking to
him. But he did not.

“You’d better put the call in,” the
Martian whispered, when I had got un-
steadily to my feet. “He’ll listen to
you.”

“Yes,” I said.

I put my mouth close to the opening,
picked up the headphones for receiving
the answer that would come from the
other end of the tube.

“NX-4, calling from the tower. Call-
ing from the tower. Get me connection
with Representative Stillson.”

The sleepy voice of a switchman came
echoing through the tube to me : “What
do you want. Four?”

I looked at the Martian. The dark-
green face was very close, the little
muscles of the brittle jaw tightened and
intent.

I said: “Message from Earth for the
representative. Iii RX code. He’s got
to come here and receive it personally.
I’m to get his stylograph signature.”

The switchman wakened to alertness :
“Right ! Connect you straight through.”

ANOTHER voice came on.
“Stillson?” I asked.

When he spoke, I knew that it could
be no other ; the words came with a lash,
snapping and stinging like little whips;
“Yes. Stillson talking.”

“Message here from Earth for you,
representative. RX code. From the
Combine.”

“Who caught it?”

“NX-5, sir.”

“Five gone off shift?”

“No, sir. He’s here with me. He
thought it was that important. He says
the message calls for your stylograph
signature.”

“All right. Bring it over the bridge
and I’ll sign for it.”

“Sorry, sir, but I can’t do that.”

I sensed the instant change in his
voice. Suspicion was there at once.
“Why not?”

I glanced at NX-5. I didn’t know
the answer to that one. But. the Mar-
tian did. He never hesitated. He
formed words with his. lips, and I read
them off mechanically, my brain numb
and unresisting to his will:

“It has to go on the tape, sir. You’ve
got to countersign it here for the rec-
ord. That was the word from Earth,
sir.”

“You don’t know what was in it?”
“No, sir. It was in three-wave sig-
nals.”

‘T’H be over,” Stillson snapped. “I’ll

FAMINE ON MARS

bring the director along with me. If it’s
that important, it might be something
big. You haven’t heard any trouble
signals from the tycho transmitter?”
“No, sir. The Moon is quiet, sir.”
“Nothing from Mars?”

“Nothing from Mars, sir.”

I believe he must have heard me pull
in my breath a little raggedly.

He said, his voice sharp and rasping:
“Let me talk to NX-5. I want to check
this up. Put Five on at once.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

The Martian took the headphones
from me, stood with his thin, bloodless
lips almost touching the mouthpiece. He
grinned narrowly and whispered: “Five
speaking.”

“You caught this message?”

“It came in about ten minutes ago,
sir, from the Earth central. Urgent.”
“Well, I’ll come across the bridge,”
Stillson said. “I’ll get hold of the di-
rector, and we’ll come as soon as we
can.”

“I don’t think the director is neces-
sary, sir. The message seems to call
for you only.”

The wariness in the other’s voice
grew a little stronger. The Martian
seemed to sense that he had made a
mistake.

Stillson growled : “Damned funny !”
“Yes, sir.”

“The director is coming along,” Still-
son said savagely.

“If you think it necessary, sir.”
“You’ve made all this sound ter-
rifically ipiportant. Are you trying to
back down?”

The Martian clicked his teeth. “No,
sir.”

Stillson said : “The director and I
shall be there in five minutes. Don’t at-
tempt to fool with that code. And I
warn you, if you’ve tried to translate it.
I’ll know.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Cut off.”

They broke connection. The Martian

hung the headphones in their niche in
the wall and turned. His eyes went into
me with the cutting edge of a bright
sword.

“You’ll do exactly as I command you,
from here on. Have you understood?”

“I have understood.”

I had no more volition of my own
now than any robot ; I was his creature
and existed to do his bidding.

“You will stand by the wall there,”
the Martian said, “at the point where
the cover-plate comes back when it is
opened. As Stillson and the director
come in, you’ll wait for the last man to
enter the room, no matter which one it
is. You’ll go at him from behind and
put him out. Whatever you have to
do, you’ll put him out. Remember.”

“I will remember.”

IV.

IT WAS a long wait, standing
against the glassite wall. It seemed
millenniums longer than the five minutes
Stillson had mentioned. Yet standing
there as I was, with arms folded, I
could look straight down at the square
metal face of my wrist chronometer,
and I knew the seconds were rapidly
passing.

NX-5 took his place with his feet
widely braced in the middle of the room.
He swept a single keen glance around
the interior of the great rectangle with-
in a sphere. Except for the yellow glare
from the infra-beam cylinder, the pur-
ple halo that played incessantly over the
coils, the clicking hum that came from
the in-leading power drains, the room
might have seemed a quiet experimental
laboratory in some far corner of the
Earth.

I heard the soft clang as the round
cover-lid at the station end of the run-
way was opened and closed. .1 heard
the footsteps of two men slowly ap-
proaching, one walking a little faster
than the other, in clipped, impatient

ASTOUNDING STORIES

leaps. I knew that was Stillson. The
other would be the director ; a tall, jovial
man, heavy of body, with a square
whimsical face, weak blue eyes, thick
white laair.

The circular slab of the cover-plate
at this end of the runway began to turn
on screwed threads. I felt my body
knotting up into a taut bundle; muscles
tight, arms and legs flattened against the
wall, I watched the heavy chunk of
metal swing toward me. It came to rest
against me. I listened while Stillson
and the director walked briskly on into
the room.

Then I released my arms, shoved the
great plate away from my body. I
sprang free and leaped at the director.

The director was standing with his
back toward me, one hand slowly slid-
ing down to the linked chain belt around
his waist, reaching for the only weapon
that should have been on the station —
his heavy air gun, the sign of his direc-
torship.

But the Martian had put his limber
fingers into the fold of his green tunic
and brought out something deadlier ;
even as I sprang on the director’s
shoulders I saw NX-5 swing his arm
in a swift short curve and glimpsed a
blue-and-white capsule falling at Still-
son’s feet.

The director curled under the weight
of my body. Before he could straighten
I struck him twice across the back of
the neck; he groaned, jerked his head,
and then didn’t move any more. I got
up, ex[)ecting to see Stillson prostrate
on the floor of the sphere, with the
Martian over him.

But the representative had come pre-
pared. He was wearing a gleaming
metal sheath around his middle. As
the Martian lifted an arm and tossed the
gas capsule at his feet, his fingers had
brushed a round black knob at the point
of one of the spikes on the belt. The
ends of the spikes seemed to expand, to
open outward like shining metal flowers

blooming; mist puffed up through a
hundred tiny openings, surrounded the
wearer of the belt in an amber aura.

The vapor from the capsule climbed
to meet the downflow of the yellow gas.
They met, joined hissing, melted to-
gether; there was a slight steam, and
then the vapor from the capsule con-
densed to liquid, ran down Stillson’s
legs to the floor. It formed there in
two little pools of black fluid, exuding
heavy smoke.

Stillson was then completely en-
veloped by the gas screen he had thrown
out from the belt; even the bottoms of
his feet and the top of his head were
thus surrounded. He tripped toward
the Martian, moving his legs in a low,
shuffling rhythm, as if slightly impeded
by the yellow fog through which he
waded and floated. Yet he could move
and move with easy speed.

AT EVERY step he took I expected
to see him topple and fall in a tangled
heap, because there was nothing solid
below him on which to walk ; he was
treading on impalpable amber gas, and
as he shifted forward the gas rolled
with him, clinging tightly to his body.
He seemed to be incased in a suit of
mobile armor.

The Martian stood staring. He made
no effort to stop the Earthman’s prog-
ress. When within about three feet of
the Martian, Stillson halted.

I heard his voice, muffled and some-
how distorted by passage through the
yellow fog, yet clear enough for ample
understanding.

“Checkmate, Five,’’ the representative
said, gently smiling. “I thought some-
thing was damned funny. There is noth-
ing known that will break through this
screen. Your Martian chemists haven’t
yet heard of its existence.’’

“Yes,” the Martian whispered.
“You’ve kept that secret, at least.”

Stillson nodded. “Well, you’ve had
your try, and you’ve failed. Turn over

FAMINE ON MARS

all the weapons you’ve got on you.
Throw them here at my feet.”

The green man stood with his shoul-
ders slumped and his head lowered. He
looked up, heaviness in his eyes. “I am
beaten.”

Slowly his hands went into the folds
of his tunic and came out with two
others of the blue-and-white capsules.
He stared down at them for a minute
of hesitation, then with a gesture of
despair shoved them away from him.

They rose, dropped, struck, burst,
were absorbed and dissolved by the am-
ber fog. Stillson stood completely en-
circled by a ring of the steaming black
fluid. He gave no notice. He was still
narrowly watching the green man.

“You had a heat projector.”

“Do you know everything ?” the Mar-
tian cried.

He threw a little metal cylinder across
the floor. It landed near a pool of dark
liquid, striking with a brisk clang. Still-
son’s eyes brightened. For an instant
he lost his infinite caution. He bent and
reached a hand out through the yellow
curtain that surrounded him, picked up
the projector.

Something sprang through the air
and coiled in a golden rope across the
Earthman’s fingers ; the glowing coil
contracted, cut into Stillson’s flesh. It
gleamed and burned with a steady flame.
Where it touched, a charred wound
came and grew in depth.

NX-5 laughed. He held a second
metal cylinder in his fingers, and his
hand covered the activating stud.

“Break up your screen,” the green
man said, “or you’re going to lose your
hand.”

Stillson didn’t speak. All the muscles
of the Earthman’s face were leaping
and jerking with the screaming torment
that crawled up to his brain from his
dissolving fingers, but he would yield
nothing. Sweat broke like rain over his
body and spattered on the floor. Yet he
didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t relax

the golden glow of the gas screen.

The green man narrowed the diameter
of the flame circle. Very slowly and
deliberately the hot sparks chewed into
Stillson’s fingers, creeping closer to the
instant when the two split arcs of the
circle would join as one and leave the
Earthman’s hand a molten blob on the
floor of the sphere.

The Martian relaxed the pressure for
an instant. He said quietly: “You’ve
got a chance to save your hand. What’s
the answer?”

Stillson bellowed “No!” and flung
himself unexpectedly backward in a
great leap. His body turned end over
end. He dropped on his feet with an
acrobatic twist, landing like a cat. For
just a second while he was in the air,
the gas screen went off ; but as he came
down again close by the cover-lid of the
runway, the cushion of mist had
wrapped his body close. And he was
free of the Martian’s heat coil.

“You lose, friend,” Stillson called
ironically. He turned and vanished with
a shuffle into the runway.

“Not yet,” the green man whispered.

He stooped. His fingers flicked over
the heels of his boots. He was shod in
heavy metal-fabric shoes, with curious
white projections at the ends, curved
and hooked like ancient riding spurs.

He straightened, feet almost touch-
ing, ankles held close together. He be-
gan to hop forward, both legs pumping
at the same time in a queer rhythm, as if
he were bound by chains. But I under-
stood what was happening.

He was wearing rocket boots. Inside
the metal-fabric sheath, under the white
jutting spurs, were repulsion batteries,
stored with immense energy, released
now at his touch. At every leap pale
lines of luminous glow trailed out be-
hind him in sparkling streamers, shov-
ing him upward and onward.

He disappeared after Stillson into the
runway, with that grotesque hopping
and skipping. I stood a minute, hesi-

ASTOUNDING STORIES

tant, glancing around me. The room
was very quiet. The director lay where
he had fallen, motionless, body crum-
pled. I was confused. My mind was
vague. I had no orders. The green
man had gone, expecting me to follow.

I ran forward. Breath pumped into
my lungs, was driven out, came again,
pounding in my threat. I ran faster
than I had ever done before, but I
could not gain on Stillson and the green
man.

THAT must have been the queerest
race ever run under the pale mocking
eyes of those white stars. Stillson had
the advantage of his slight lead. Yet
in his haste he had not taken time to
close and seal the station end of the
runway, and the Martian mu.st have
gone through in one tremendous jump.
I came after.

The runway dovetailed into the ends
of the two central corridors of the disk.
The station was split across the middle
into two equal arcs ; one corridor curved
in a sweep to the right, the other swung
to the left.

I saw NX-5. He had stopped, again
in the baffled melancholy he had as-
sumed once before, his head slumped be-
tween his thin shoulders, his brittle body
in a shambling pose. I closed the gap
between us.

He glared at me, eyes shuttling back
and forth in their narrow sockets like
wild things. “If I knew which way he’s
gone! He is heading for the outside
E-lock. He means to take a ship and
go to the Combine on Earth. If he
reaches Earth, they’ll have a warning.
If I knew which way he’s gone! I
could still get to the E-lock first. I’ve
the better speed.”

He cried out in some unintelligible
gibberish, swinging his dark hands. I
stared over his shoulder. The corridor
beyond him, that taking the left swing
around the disk, was faintly luminous
with amber gas.

I was still under the magnetic in-
fluence of the green man. I pointed.

“What’s that?”

“Where?” he said, turning on me
fiercely.

“To the left there,” I said. “Yellow
stuff, see? Gas. He went that way.
He’s left his trail.”

The Martian threw his breath out in
a huge explosive burst and was gone.
He went so swiftly that I could only
stand an instant, blinking and stunned
by that blazing speed. It was almost
as if he had worn wings.

I hurried in the path he had taken. I
was near to dropping from exhaustion,
but an impulse more powerful than
weariness had taken command of me. I
wanted to be in at the death, if death
there was.

The disk seemed to be deserted here.
The doors on either side of me as I
sped along were closed and locked, and
no light seeped under their sills into the
corridor. The corridor stretched be-
fore me, empty and echoing to the hol-
low slap-slap of my running feet ; metal
floor and metal ceiling were alike to the
pitiless glare of dead- white light. I
thought, the Martian must have drugged
the rest of the crew, some way — sleep
gas in the ventilators. It was possible.
Knowing what I knew now, it seemed a
certainty. But I couldn’t stop to
ponder.

I rounded the sloping curve of the
far side of the corridor as it began to
swing inward again, and there were
Stillson and the green man, locked in
combat. I halted and watched, with
awe and fear and a little trembling.
Had I interfered on either side, I should
have been impatiently slaughtered.

This was a battle of controlled forces
and insensate energies. I had sensed
that from the beginning, but it was made
plain to me now. All the ruthless
strength that stood Up and hurled de-
fiance to the universe in the name of the
Cwnbine was distilled in essence into

FAMINE ON MARS

the lean tigerish figure of Stillson the
representative ; the gaunt courage of the
Martian colony struggling against thirst
and despair gleamed in the eyes of the
green man. It seemed to me the out-
come must inevitably be the annihilation
of both. Neither would yield.

But I was wrong. Stillson yielded.
If it had been only his personal safety
at stake, Stillson would have remained
and fought until dead. But he carried
a warning, and he must live to reach the
Earth. And yet the green man had the
greater stake in the battle — ^the lives of
the million slowly dying on parched
Mars.

The Martian held the heat projector
in his hand; knifing white-hot sparks
leaped from the end of the little metal
tube to meet the mantle of gas that cov-
ered Stillson’s body. Where the sparks
struck, coruscating bubbles flashed and
danced, but there seemed nothing that
could penetrate the amber cloak of lu-
minous mist.

The Martian widened the focus of the
heat beams: flame-worms crawled and
burrowed into the silky surface of the
gas, and suddenly I could see a slight
change in its texture, a slow yielding
to the Martian’s hurled heat, a heavy
back-firing that began as a greenish
luminescent scum and steadily thick-
ened. It looked then as if the Martian
had victory in his hand.

But I counted on Stillson’s remaining
to carry on the fight. Until it happened,
I couldn’t believe that Stillson would
sacrifice personal courage to what he
conceived as a greater good.

Yet it was so. He backed doggedly
away, one hand fumbling out behind
him for the grip of the little wheel that
controlled the outside emergency air
lock. Through the half-transparent
glassite behind him I could glimpse the
dull gray shape of a two-man rocket
cylinder. It was the escape ship always
kept there, propulsive units charged and
ready.

With a quick jerk, Stillson spun the
wheel. The inside panel of the lock
leaped open, half protecting him from
the Martian’s onslaught; the hot tongs
of the heat beams rattled and clashed on
the heavy surface of the lock door.

Stillson slipped inside, the panel clos-
ing with him automatically. I watched
him hurry to the escape ship, open a
plate in the side, and hurl himself
within. The little ship was barely big
enough to hold two men. First his feet
disappeared, then his legs, last his head
and shoulders. But for a long time
after I could not see his body at all, the
memory of his mocking smile hung in
the air before me.

I THOUGHT the green man would
go mad. He kicked and beat on the
door, forgetting the wheel, forgetting
the terrible weapon in his hand, that
given another instant would have cut
through the stellite sheath as if it had
been gray water. At last I pulled him
away from the lock door.

He swung on me. “Why didn’t you
do something? You saw him slipping
away. From where you stood, you
could have got at him.”

I stared at him, showed my empty
h<-nds. “How? And what with? You’ve
given me no weapon.”

He hunkered down on the floor a
minute, fingers covering his dark con-
vulsed face, his body rocking on his
heels. Suddenly he stood up, shrugged.

“That’s so. Forgot you weren’t
armed. Should have given you an
H-projector. My fault.”

His eyes burned. “Well, we’ve got
to work fast; that’s all. It’s not likely
I’ll succeed now ; it’s pretty certain he’s
beaten me. But I can’t quit yet. I’ve
got to keep thinking there’s still a mil-
lion people out there — a million with
nothing to drink. Dying for a little

ASTOUNDING STORIES

water. I’ll need you. Four. You’ve
got to help me.”

“Of course!” I said, but hesitantly.

Some of his dominance over me had
worn off. It was like a drug; the ef-
fect didn’t last. I was not so sure now
as I had been a minute ago that he was
right, that the Combine was wrong.

Abruptly he put his big hands on my
shoulders and shoved me around to face
him. He stabbed with his eyes deep
into my brain. I could almost feel him
plucking out my thoughts and dismem-
bering them as if they had been live
things.

“You’re going to help me, because
you’ve got to help me,” he said. “Be-
cause it is my will.”

His voice was soft, smooth, but over-
whelming. It hit me like a wave, and I
sank down in it with the roar of men-
tal surf in my ears.

“I’ll help you,” I said stiffly. “Where
do you want to begin ?”

He began to walk back along the cor-
ridor toward the signal tower. The
energy charges in his racing boots were
exhausted, and he swung his thin legs
forward in long, catlike strides. After
the terrific strain of the mad race we
had gone through, the pace he set now
was easy for me. I kept close by his
side, glancing now and again at the
blank surfaces of the doors we passed.

I demanded, suddenly: “What about
the crew? What have you done to
them ?”

He laughed, a harsh, short, metallic
burst of sound. “You needn’t worry'.
It’s only sleep gas in the ventilators.
They won’t wake for another six
hours.”

“Six hours?” I muttered. “You won’t
have much time to do whatever it. is
you’re going to do. In six hours Still-
son will be on his way back with a
squadron from the Earth fleet.”

“I know,” he said. He lengthened
his stride. “I told you it was a long
chance. But Stillson has made a mis-

take. I have been trying to keep from
taking the lives of your people. Now
it may be necessary for a few good men
to die.”

I halted, shivering. “Murder?”

“No more murder than what is hap-
pening to my people.”

“I tell you I won’t kill. Not for you
or any other.”

“Sometimes,” he whispered, “some-
times it is necessary that a few die in
order that many may live. Do you un-
derstand ?”

“No.”

We were walking again.

He grinned. “You’ll see. You’ll see,
in just a little while. It won’t be pleas-
ant. But then dying of thirst isn’t —

pleasant Stillson has made things

hard.”

We stopped at the end of the corri-
dor. The Martian swung his head com-
pletely around on his neck, in a gro-
tesque swiveling motion, as if suspicious
of something, but nothing was changed
in any way from what it had been when
we had passed here before. He sent me
ahead of him as we entered the runway.
It was not that he was afraid; it was
simply that his own one life was worth
too much to his cause to be risked now
for any reason.

The director lay where I had left him.
His body seemed to have a curious im-
mobility about it, as if it had been
frozen. I went over and touched him
with my foot. He didn’t move.

I tore a button from my tunic,
brushed it once or twice across my
sleeve. It gleamed. Bending, I straight-
ened the director’s arms, with some dif-
ficulty because he was very rigid and
hard, and holding his head up with one
hand, I put the button close to his nos-
trils first and then to his lips. It came
away with its shining smooth surface
unblurred. No breath.

I GOT UP, feeling very sick. The
Martian had closed the cover-lid leading

FAMINE ON MARS

to the runway and was coming stealth-
ily across the room. I waited, glaring.

He stopped. “What’s wrong?”

I touched the director with my foot.
“He isn’t breathing,” I said with a sob.

“Did you hit him the way I told
you ?”

“Yes. He was breathing when Still-
son ran out.”

The green man gurgled a sour laugh.
I got back my hope. If he could laugh,
there was something here that I did not
know, that made what I had spoken
seem to him ridiculous.

“He’s not dead,” the Martian said.
“He’s had a little of what you had, only
a bigger dose. He’s been lying next to
that pool of liquefied gas, and it’s been
evaporated; he’ll come out of it in six
hours. He won’t breathe a minute be-
fore, no matter, what you do. But we’re
wasting time. We’ve got things to do.”

“All right,” I said. “You think you
can beat Stillson, beat Earth, beat all
of us here at the station. What makes
you so sure?”

He swung his big head from side to
side on his neck, in an impatient mo-
tion. Abruptly I saw the dust of despair
settling in his eyes, and for the first
time I came to an awakening of how
really desperate he was. Alone, fighting
single-handed, millions of miles from
his own kind, cut off from all help ex-
cept what he wrenched unwillingly
through force, he struggled against odds
so overwhelming that to any other man
they would have brought acknowledg-
ment of defeat. Yet still he fought.

“I’m not sure,” the Martian said.
“I’m pretty sure I won’t do it. But I’ve
got to try. Enough of that. The first
thing we’ve got to do is to build up the
beam for long-distance transmission.
I’m going to take every ounce of power
we’ve got. There’ll be no relay to carry
this message. It’s got to reach straight
through.”

“Can’t be done,” I said. “How about
the station on the other side of the

Moon? How about the midway station
on the Mars run? You can’t get by
them. They’d throw a blanket inter-
ference shield all over you.”

He stared at me, a queer film form-
ing over his eyes. Then he said slowly ;
“If those stations are wiped out, I can
get through.”

“Yes,” I said, stunned.

“Now you’re going to talk about be-
ing civilized,” he said, in the same soft
voice. “When it comes to this. I’m not
civilized. I’m no more civilized right
now than an ape from your jungles.
And I’m glad. I’ll kill, and I’ll pride
in the killing.”

I couldn’t move or speak. His eyes
held mine ; they were gigantic ; little
flecks of fire lay deep in them, glowing
with a tremendous hot force that dug
into me like a shower of spears, closed
over me like a net, and held me tighter
the more I struggled. His mentality
was greater than mine, and his was the
victory. I yielded. There was nothing
else I could have done, except give in.

“We’ll start,” he said. “Where is
the mounted projector?”

“Projector?” I said. “I don’t know.”
He growled : “The disk is armed. At
least, they call it that. There’s an old
E-type flame-thrower somewhere.”

I told him where it was. He listened,
unrelaxed, his body still all one taut
bundle of nerves and wound-up muscles,
his brows knotted into a black line on
his dark brow.

At last he nodded, stood rubbing his
chin with two long green fingers. Look-
ing at him, I thought I could see a faint
luminous aura expelled from his body,
like phosphoric sweat. It was the Mar-
tian halo.

Deep into me then went realization
of the difference between us, between
Earthman and Martian. Related, con-
nected, shaped out of the same hot stuff
thrown from the Sun — ^that we were,
but no more. In thought, in heart, in
body and brain, there was a gulf wide

ASTOUNDING STORIES

- open between us across which no bridge
could be flung.

The Martian said: “You’ll stay here
and build a set-up on the board that will
reach from the disk to Korna-on-Mars.
That’s your job. Remember; no re-
serve. Take all the power you can get.
Drain the cells.”

Without another glance at me, he
turned and walked into the runway.

I called after him: “Where are you
going?”

“To find that projector,” he said, his
voice echoing. “The left corridor, half-
way around the disk. In an alcove —
that’s what you told me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “So you’re really go-
ing to do this thing?”

His voice came back, very faint and
yet strong. “I am.”

The sound of his footsteps died out.
He was already out of sight. I wjis
alone, except for the chilled motionless
body of the director.

I TURNED, went to the keyboard of
the beam, and sat down. What I did
then, I did mechanically; I knew every
possible combination of the keys as well
as I knew the tines in the palm of my
hand. I began to set up the long-
distance terminals next to the guide
posts. The hiss of the receptor tube
graduated downward into silence; the
broadcast central responded when I
opened the key, made a soft chuckling
whisper.

The coming of it was noiseless and in-
visible, a smooth swift flow of energy
along the curved, gleaming sides of the
conduit coils, but I thought I could hear
the power pouring into the reservoir
cells behind the board, and the sound
of it was oddly menacing and evil. For
a minute I sat hesitant, almost took my
hands from the keys, almost tore the
terminal plugs away from their sockets ;
the impulse passed, and I went on.

After what seemed a long while I
heard the Martian’s catlike steps behind

me. He came in, his face furrowed and
wrinkled as if tom by indecision, his
eyes heavy with weariness.

He checked the arrangement of the
keyboard almost without interest. He
nodded, touched my arm.

“All right, that will do. Come with
me now. We can’t send off the mes-
sage until the projector has done its
work. I’ll need you to do the load-
ing.”

With both hands, I took a grip on the
metal edge of the keyboard. I huddled
against the seat. “Not going.” I got
the words out of a stiff throat.

“Yes; you are going,” he said softly.

“I won’t have any part in murdering
two hundred men. They’re my own
kind.”

“What about the million on Mars?”
he said, very low. “They’re my kind.”

“Didn’t think of that,” I said.

“Follow,” he said then, and I fol-
lowed.

We went through the runway a sec-
ond time, back around the curved edge
of the disk, till we came to the room
that I knew, a little crucible set off by
itself from the rest of the station, jut-
ting out in a bulge into the void. The
door was open, a light gleaming. We
went in.

“This it ?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “You found it, all
right.”

My eyes took in the sight of the pro-
jector. It was a good deal like the old-
time guns. It was braced in the snug
grip of a recoil-carriage, a long gray
snout of a thing, open-mouthed and
grim of line. There were wheels and
luminous dials around the balanced end
of the long, thin, firing-barrel, and I
saw the silvery, snakelike form of a
power hose leading into the base of the
supporting tripod.

Against one wall of the room swung
two hampers, metal-fabric nets sagging
with the weight of green projectiles.
The hamper closer to me held small

FAMINE ON MARS

cylinder-shaped missiles, the other be-
yond, huge blunt objects of gray and
green.

“Do you know anything about han-
dling an H-type?” the Martian asked
slowly. He went to the projector and
fingered a small spoked wheel. “Have
you ever fired one, or seen one fired?”
“No,” I said. “This room was al-
ways kept locked. This is the first time
I’ve ever been in here.”

He bent down. His uncanny hands
went delicately skipping here and there
over the mechanism of the firing slot.
He twisted two huge wheels, something
dimly clicked and responded.

“No matter,” he said, as if to him-
self. “I’ll only need you to shove the
shells home. They aren’t heavy, even
the biggest. This thing should have
an automatic feeder, but it’s an old type.
It’s good the range I have to make is
only half the Mars distance. This
wouldn’t reach much beyond.”

“If it had the right acceleration,” I
said slowly, “I don’t see why not. The
momentum would carry the shell on.”
I stood there an instant, stunned. The
room seemed to expand and brighten
till the light above my head was like a
second sun, flowering with flame.

My voice burst out of me in a rush :
"Thought of something. No need for
you to kill all those men. You can dis-
mantle the generator here, pack it into
one of the big shells, and fire it at
Mars. I’d send a message to Korna to
look out for a bright object in space,
Mars-bound, that might be a new comet
or a meteor. I could make Korna
understand, and the stations between
here and Mars wouldn’t suspect a thing.
They’d relay the warning through. I’m
sure I could get them to do that. Then,
when we had connection on a tight
beam, you could come on, and Korna
would know what was going to hap-
pen.

The green man shifted his body
around, head turned, eyes warily fixed

on me. He grinned like a contemptuous
cat. “This old heater hasn’t got the
juice to carry that far. There’s too
many angles where somebody could
make a mistake. The stations might
get wise and ray the shell. I can’t take
a chance on any mistakes, understand.”

I whispered: “Then you won’t give
it a try?”

“No; I won’t,” he said. His voice
was harsh. “Can’t waste any more
time arguing with you. Get over here.
Give me one of those little shells. They
ought to be enough ”

VI.

I MOVED blindly as he commanded.
I went over and picked up one of the
little shining cylinders and, carrying it
gingerly, brought it across to him. He
put both his hands on the control
mechanism of the projector. Some-
thing hummed. The big end of the firing
barrel began to split open along a
notched groove the same length as the
fire shell I was holding.

The Martian’s head was bent, his
broad back toward me. I could see the
bulge of hard flesh at the base of his
neck, where his shoulders joined. He
was eight feet away. Two jumps. Then
my hands around his throat, squeez-
ing

He spoke suddenly, without turning.
“Shove the shell in,” the green man said.
“Close the block and stand away. Some-
times there’s a backlash.”

I listened with one half of my brain.
Two jumps, and my fingers would be
digging into his neck. Better one mur-
der than two hundred. Better one man
should die here than that all those others
in space should walk without warning
into the embrace of death.

I lifted the little gleaming thing in
my hands, fitted it into the end of the
breechblock. The two halves of the fire
chamber began to come together again,
shaping snugly in a curve around the

ASTOUNDING STORIES

shell. It thumbed a stud. The sides of
the block swung in, touched, and I heard
a sound sharp and brief, like a clock
ticking.

“Ready,” I said.

The Martian heard the ticking at the
same time I did. Still holding the bal-
ance wheel in his right hand, he reached
out with his left to pull the release down
into the firing slot.

I could see over the green man’s
shoulder. I could see everything that
he saw, and more. On the little grid
plate above his head was mirrored the
black sweep of the sky, the round
sphere of the Moon, the pin-point bril-
liances, of Mars and Jupiter; and be-
yond the edge of the Moon lay a tiny
bright speck that was the Moon-to-
Mars relay station. That was what the
Martian saw.

I saw more. I glimpsed the faces of
the hundred men inside that huge metal
disk, the faces of men I knew, who had
been friends with me, who were bom
of Earth as I was of Earth. And then I
caught the gleam of a bright arrow
curving across the void, striking, explod-
ing, shattering. Insatiable flame burn-
ing a hole in space. Death and flame
roaring

I took two quick jumps, moving si-
lently. At the end of the second jump
I came down on the Martian’s back, feet
first, my legs held stiff before me.

It was like falling against a huge in-
flated balloon. There must have been
no more thickness to his skin than the
narrow outer layer of dark flesh that
was visible to my eyes. I felt bone
snap and break with a brittle groaning.

I stood up. The Martian lay where
he had fallen, his face in the spilled yel-
low muck of his own blood. He cried
out.

I wiped my hand across my eyes and
went toward him, moving in sidewise,
watching him cautiously. He looked as
if he could never rise again, but I was
wary. I knew his giant strength, his

immense will, his savage fanaticism in
the cause he served.

I bent low, my body stooping in an
awkward curve above him. And it was
then he performed a miracle. Without
, rising, without exerting the power of
any part of his body except his arm
and hand, he reached up and threw his
right arm over my shoulder, around my
neck. He pulled me down, crushed me
to the floor, made a lightning move-
ment with his free hand. From some-
where under his tunic he had taken a
metal-fabric harness; the harness came
down over my head, a gleaming elec-
trode slid under my tongue, and I felt
a shivering sensation of ecstasy, then
numbness.

He fastened a chain behind my head,
and attached the end link in the chain
to a bracelet he wore about his wrist.
The chain was about six feet long, shin-
ing and flexible. I had that much room
to move.

“Stand back a little,” the green man
said, thin-lipped. “I am going to fire.”

He pulled the release. I shut my
eyes. But I couldn’t keep my eyes
closed. I looked, and it was as I had
dreamed it in my brain so short a time
before — ^the thin pencil mark of fire
streaking across the grid plate, the
awful instant of contact, the flaring ex-
plosion, visible as a faint yellow flash on

the dark plate And then I knew

the station on the other side of the
Moon was gone.

The Martian jerked his head. “An-
other shell,” he said. “Same size.”

The room twisted under my feet ; the
fumes from the breechblock burned my
eyes. I was sick and stunned, but I
got over to the hamper and carried back
the second shell.

“Put it in,” the Martian whispered.

I obeyed. The gray walls around me
whirled and danced ; the dfead-white
light beat in torrents arid floods over my
eyes.

Blinded, I sank down. I was dimly

FAMINE ON MARS

conscious of the Martian’s sweating and
pulling at the fire slot. I heard the
second soft moan of the projector. The
sound it made was like a low dry
cough.

I felt a stinging in my side. The
green man stood over me. He spurned
me with his foot.

“Get up,” he said. “Get up.”

“I’m done.” The words crawled out
of my throat.

“No,” he said. “No; you’re not.
We’re not through yet.”

HE JERKED me to my feet. Ter-
ribly wounded as he was, he still had
twice my strength. He had made no
attempt to bind his hurt or stop the drip
of yellow blood. Looking at that dribble
slowly running down his side, I saw that
the blood had not yet begun to coagulate.
It was still running and falling on the
floor in a pulsing stream.

"You’ll bleed to death,” I said. “Let
me patch that up for you. I can’t see
you die in front of me like this.”

“I won’t die,” the green man said
grimly. His eyes held a burning bright-
ness. "I can’t die, until I’ve done what
I’ve started out to do. Nothing can kill
me now Follow !”

We went out of the projector room,
leaving the door open. Some of the
vapors from the firing crept into the
corridor and formed pools and eddies of
heavy smoke. The gas that belched
from the projector was thick opalescent
mist, dull crimson; it coiled in stagnant
masses that took shapes like sleepy
snakes.

The Martian ran down the corridor
in rippling strides. His head was tilted,
his shoulders drawn back stiff, his body
moving in a tempered rhythm. He
seemed transfigured. He seemed to grow
lighter and yet stronger as his blood
fell away from him. He seemed im-
mune to death and the thought of death.

He was a giant walking in the shape
of a man.

We entered a long low room, the
ceiling almost brushing the Martian’s
head, the plates of the inner shell of the
disk showing ribs and braces. At the
end of the room stood the WR gen-
erator.

It was a simple little thing. Small
compact cube, black and glittering. Six
coils, interconnected, the flow of cold
latex juice* running from right to left.
Dials and meters. Two switches, one
green, one dull red. Two faucets, wide-
mouthed, attached to the thick bellies of
feed pipes.

So small a thing for worlds to war
over! And yet there was nothing sim-
pler nor smaller in the eyes of men
than a drop of water — nor anything
more important to a parched throat.
Everything is relative. If the gods had
been kind, it might have been Mars, the
dry and burned, the scorched and
thirsty world, that should have stum-
bled on the secret of creating hydrogen
and oxygen from sand and then com-
bining the two in water. There was
sand enough on Mars. Sand — water
from sand 1 Irony enough in that.

Irony, too, in the fact that it had been
a man of Earth who had delved into the
mystery of this secret, who had created
the first WR generator. A denizen of
a planet three fourths liquid at the sur-
face had been the first to be able to
make water ! The gods, the silent gods
sitting alone in space, must have laughed
on the day when that miracle happened.
The miracle of water from sand !

Something of this must have fled like
a ghost through the Martian’s bitter
brain. As we stood there looking at the
little generator, he turned and smiled at
me very strangely.

“There’s a jest for you!” the green
man said. “Damned good joke! How
the gods must laugh! But we don’t

♦ I..atex juice—naine given to the cold power current generated by sun cells.

ASTOUNDING STORIES

laugh on Mars. No ; we spill our sweat
and our blood, fighting to get the secret
of this little thing.”

HE WAS facing squarely toward me,
and for the first time I noticed that he
had brought along one of the giant
shells that had been in the projector
room.

He took it from his shoulder and
dropped it clanging on the metal plates
of the floor, next to the generator.

He knelt, and I got down beside him.

“What are you going to do?” I said.

“I’m going to tear this thing to pieces.
Then I’ll pack it in the shell and fire
it at Mars. There’s a chance it may
get there.”

Sweat came like dew all over me.
“Why didn’t you try that before ? There
was never any need to wipe out those
two stations.”

He said : “I couldn’t take the chance.
The people at the stations wouldn’t have
let the shell go by. They’d have rayed
anything that big. You know that.
What would we have done here if we
had seen a thing that size coming to-
ward us ?”

I clubbed my hands together. “But
they didn’t stop those heat shells you
threw at them !”

“They didn’t have time,” he said,
grim and flat, his words spitting into
my face. “The shells came from the
down side and came fast. They didn’t
have time to put up a screen, even if
they had been able to get a vision of
those little shells on an ordinary visi-
plate, which they couldn’t do. This
thing is big. And it will travel slower.
They could have blanked it out.”

I wanted to hurt him. “Even so,” I
said, “it won’t get to Mars. The pro-
jector won’t carry that far. You told
me that.”

His face shivered with an agony of
despair. “I don’t know,” he said sav-
agely. “Maybe it won’t reach Mars.
But the message I’m going to send when

we finish here will go through because
there won’t be anything anywhere to
stop it.”

“Yes,” I said. “You’ve seen to
that.”

I watched him take the generator
carefully apart. Not that he knew the
inner workings of it any more than I
did. But he had watched Stillson many
times when Stillson was handling it, and
he knew the neat way each section was
made in one whole piece, and fitted
smoothly, without joint or bolt, into the
next. The edges of the sections were
shaved so smooth that they clung to-
gether with a stubborn tightness by
molecular tension. It took all the Mar-
tian’s savage strength to separate the
sections.

But they came. And piece by piece,
coil with coil, tubes and meters and
quivering dials, they were taken away
from their place against the wall and
packed inside the curved hollow of the
great shell. The Martian carefully
blocked off the flow of latex juice. There
was a sputtering, a flicker of cold
sparks, and then silence.

The thing was over. The Martian
fitted the upper half of the projectile
down over the hollow compartment and
locked it together. He rose, swung the
heavy weight of the shell to his left
shoulder. He touched me.

“Now we’ll go back to the projec-
tor,” he said, heavily.

I hesitated, glancing around. The
room looked bare and desolate with the
generator gone. I missed something. 1
listened an instant, then knew what it
was. I missed the soft crackle of the
latex juice running through the coils.

“Wait,” I said, remembering some-
thing. “What about water for the disk ?
For all these men here? You’re going
to leave us nothing?”

“There’s a reserve,” the green man
said. He grinned, with a certain irony.
“And Earth is six hours away. And

FAMINE ON MARS

Stillson’s coming with a fleet — ^you
haven’t forgotten that?”

“No; I haven’t forgotten. Have
you ?”

“We still have an hour,” he said
calmly. “A little more than an hour
before Stillson will be here. My work
will be finished before that.”

VII.

WE WALKED from that room si-
lently, shoulder to shoulder. I didn’t
want to fight him any more. It might
have been because I wore the harness,
but I didn’t think so. I didn’t want to
fight him any more because I knew he
was right.

Going along the corridor toward the
tower, I touched him gently on the arm.
Even at that light contact he tensed and
whirled.

“You can take this thing off me,” I
said, lifting my hand to the headgear.
“I’m through. You’ve beaten me.
You’ve beaten all of us.”

He stared, lips curling. “No. You’ve
made a fool of me already.”

“You’ve made a bigger fool of me,”
I said. “I’d like this harness off.”

He would not believe me. We plodded
on. The opening of the runway loomed
before us. We had stopped lon||" since
in the projector room and sent off the
shell holding the generator. It was all
we could do. Even now it would be
racing along its path deep into space,
holding a steady course toward Mars.

If it got there in time

“Do you think it will?” I asked sud-
denly. “Do you think it will?”

He picked up the thread of my
thought, because it had been his own.
“Already many of my people are dead.”
His voice burst out of hkn in a great
sob. “And many more will die.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I can’t
forget we’ve killed — ^you and I. I wasn’t
willing, but all the same, it was murder.

I killed those two hundred that were in
the stations.”

I could never forget that. I had
killed two hundred men.

“You did only what I commanded
you,” the green man said, very low.

“I’ll see that you forget. I promise
you that much peace. Now sit down
and send this message.”

I got into my place before the key-
board. Everything was just the way it
had been a few hours gone when I had
come in from the runway and NX-5
had been sitting hunched over the board
with the headgear cocked above his ears.
And yet everything was changed. Still-
son was gone to bring a fleet from
Earth. There was the wound in the
green man’s side. There was the direc-
tor lying so quiet on his back, his big
hands crumpled into impotent fists as
they had fallen at his sides before he
had a chance to strike, his face frozen,
his eyes as blind as stone.

I put the headgear on and opened the
key. Power beat in a pulsing tide
through the transmitter coils. I said:
“Ready.”

“Call Korna-on-Mars,” the green man
said.

Then his face was suddenly bloodless.
Now the thing was so nearly done, now
his triumph was so close, his weakness
rose and overwhelmed him. His words
stumbled, his voice blurred, but I un-
derstood.

I called Mars. Then a long time
seemed to pass, with — nothing. Silence
all over the void.

I looked at the green man. “Koma
doesn’t answer.”

“Wait a little longer,” he whispered.
“Just a little longer.”

Then it came. Ghostly and faint, I
caught the dim signals :

“Korna-on-Mars replying. Station 1.
Station 1. Ready for message. Ready
for message.”

I spoke : “Projectile will fall on land-
ing stage 12. north port. Watch for

ASTOUNDING STORIES

shell that will fall on roof at Korna.
Trajectory arc plotted. Shell contains
WR generator. That is all.”

‘‘Who is sending?” the Mars operator
demanded.

I looked at the green man. He walked
in glory.

I said: ‘‘NX-5 sending. NX-5 send-
ing.”

“Repeat message,” the Mars operator
flung back in a sudden frenzy. “Repeat,
repeat, repeat.”

Despite myself, despite all the an-
tagonism I had felt, my blood stirred
and responded to what was in that faint
far-away voice. There was delirium in
it, and unbelief born of hope, and a wild
exultance that expanded upward and
outward in a gigantic blossoming — a
thing so huge and wonderful that it
seemed to me that it filled all space even
to the outermost barriers.

“Shell fired from station 1,” I trans-
mitted. “Shell fired at 16.08 Earth
chronometer reading. Dismantled gen-
erator is cargo. Prepare to receive.
Shell will fall on landing stage above
Korna. Allow for probable navigation
error. Shell contains rocket motor
which is set for atmosphere flight and
for landing. Prepare to receive. Do
you understand ? Do you understand ?”

The answer burned the void: “Yes.
Will cut off. Must give news. Must
give news to city. NX-5, get away.
Ships left Earth before we received
your signals. They are coming. Use
escape rocket on station. Hurry !”

Silence.

I turned. “They’ve cut off,” I said.

The green man put his hand out and
braced himself against the wall. He
had no more blood in his face at all.
He began to slip down slowly to the
floor of the sphere.

I caught him as he fell; then I saw
what he had seen on the vision screen.

A fleet from Earth. Eight ships.
Binging through space toward the sta-

tion hung here in the shadow of the
Moon. They were coming for the green
man.

STILLSON would be in one of those
ships, eating his heart out, pacing and
sweating: I could see him, his face
contorted, his big hands clenched, the
thick veins bulging in his forehead. He
would want the Martian’s blood. He
would want the green man for a sacri-
fice to appease the anger of the Com-
bine at his failure. He had failed. Even
now he surely must know that.

I nodded toward the ships on the
screen. “Those,” I said. “What can
they do to you. Five? You’ve beaten
them. You, one man alone, liave beaten
the whole Earth. There’s glory for
you !”

I held the green man in my arms. He
reached up wearily and wrenched the
chain from the thin metal band around
my head. He whispered something. I
put my ear closer to his lips.

“Fve taken the harness off,” he whis-
pered. “You’re free. But wear it till
they come. Wear it till they come, you
understand? You’ve got to prove you
weren’t with me. You’ve got to make
Stillson see you didn’t help me of your
own will.”

“What about you?” I asked.

He grinned slowly, painfully. “I’ve
got one more thing to ask of you. Don’t
let me die here. Take me to the lock.
Let me go out before they come. I’d
like to finish out there. Don’t let me
die here.”

So then I said : “I’ll help you, in this
one thing. Can you walk?”

“I — I’m a little tired.”

“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll carry
you.”

“Are they any nearer?” he muttered.
“Stillson’s ship. The leader. Does it
look any closer to you?”

I looked up over his head at the
square screen. The ships there were
very big.

AST— 6

FAMINE ON MARS

But I lied: “No. They’re not yet
close. We’ll have time. I’ll carry you.’’

I put my arms under him and tried
to lift him up. And failed. He was too
heavy. His bulk was more than my
strength would overcome.

I tried again, till I felt the bones rub
together in my back.

Then he said: “Never mind. This
was coming to me. It was written be-
fore I was born.”

But all at once his eyes fell on some-
thing that I couldn’t see, and his face
changed. He fumbled at his belt with
thick weak fingers.

“Let me tell you what I want now,”
he whispered. He raised his hand, and
in it lay a shining cylinder.

“Use that,” he said. “I’ll be grateful
to you. I’ll shut my eyes, and that will
be all.”

“No,” I said. I pulled my eyes away
from the gleaming little flame-tube. “I
can’t do it.”

He looked at me. “You’ll do it,” he
said, and fell back.

So then I took the small shining cy-
linder in my hand and, aiming it at the
middle of his forehead, just above his
closed eyes, I pressed a stud. Shivering
a little, I watched while the green man
died.

Just after that I heard footsteps out-
side in the runway and confused voices
shouting, “They went this way. They
went back in the tower.”

Then there was silence, and some cau-
tious whispering, and careful scurryings

and movements that I recognized as the
actions of men setting a trap for a dan-
gerous enemy. So they thought the
Martian was dangerous! Well, they
might.

He was as dangerous to their world as
any man with an idea.

After a long time, emboldened by the
silence from the sphere, they got up
courage to cut through the cover-lid of
the runway with flame arcs.

Stillson came in first, his gas mantle
wrapped about him, his thin body limned
in opalescent mist. He stood hesitant,
his face veiled by the pellucid vapor that
was his shield.

Then he shuffled forward.

I got up, by degrees. I was pretty
weak. First I raised my body to my
knees, and then I stood erect, facing
him.

Stillson struck the Martian’s shoul-
der with his foot. “So he’s dead.”

I muttered: “Yes. I killed him.”

Stillson swept his sharp glance
around the curved walls of the sphere.
“The generator’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they’ve got their water,” Still-
son said, shrugging. “Be damned to
them 1”

He turned round on his heel and went
out. I looked past the green man’s head
at the vision screen. Mars was very
bright. I thought I heard a voice say-
ing: “Water to make the desert bloom.
Water out of sand. Now let the gods
laugh 1”

AST-7

The Wand of Creation

In which man*s curiosity
penetrates a forbidden veil

S EVENTY miles beneath the sur-
face of the earth, a massive steel
cylinder, fitted at its forward end
with a huge rotary drill, bored its way
rapidly downward through solid rock.

Within its narrow cabin, reeking with
heat and the smell of scorched oil, two
men crouched in pilot chairs, alertly
watching the instruments and controls
of their weird vehicle, which gleamed
brightly in the glare of electric lights.

“Anyway, one ancient theory has
gone to the limbo of has-beens. Dr.
Spears!” the younger of the pair
shouted above the growl of machinery
and the rattle of stone fragments hurt-
ling sternward through the evacuators.
“Except for that lava pocket we ran
into a few minutes ago, the old world’s
still perfectly solid at this depth. Who
knows but that we may be able to go
straight on to its center, without en-
countering the molten core the old-
timers talked about!” The speaker’s
freckled face, beaded with sweat, wore
a grin of enthusiasm, and his young eyes
sparkled.

“Part of our business is to send
obsolete theories to limbo, Nix,” Walter
Spears, a plump, bald-headed old
scientist, responded jovially. “The
earth may be practically solid through
and through — we can’t be sure how an
enormous pressure will affect the state
of matter regardless of temperature.
However, solid or liquid, don’t fool
yourself that the core of this planet
isn’t tremendously hot.

“Old Terra hasn’t cooled that much
since it was made. It’s a cinch that
we’ll need a much more heat-resistant
subterrine than this one, to get to its

heart. Dammit, I thought for a minute
we were done for! But by luck we
got this iron coffin steered out of that
lake of fire in time. Let’s see, we must
have picked up some mineral samples
there. Suppose we have a look.”

Spears’ fat fingers manipulated a
small valve. There was a hiss of steam
as a jet of water was injected into the
hot contents of the sample-receiving
tube — a. flexible metal pipe leading
through the air-tight walls of the cabin,
and on through the hull of the sub-
terrine, to the great drill at its nose.
It was through this tube that specimens
of the medium through which the
vehicle was passing could be taken.

Russel Nixon watched his elderly
companion’s moves with interest. When
he considered the samples cool enough
to handle, the doctor opened the breech
of the receiving tube and, with a long
tongs, removed the several ashy clinkers
into which the water-chilled lava had
congealed. Imbedded in one was a
small piece of lustrous black substance,
upon the glassy surfaces of which an
oily opalescent sheen shimmered elu-
sively. Spears broke the crumbly lava
away from it with little effort. Then
he hefted it critically in a gloved hand.

“Turn out the lights, Nix,” he com-
manded suddenly.

His assistant obeyed ; but with the
electric bulbs extinguished, there was
still a faint phosphorescent illumination,
in which the curving metal walls of the
cabin shone slumberously. The glow,
greenish in hue, originated from the
fragment of mineral in the savant’s
palm.

“Fluorescent,” Nixon pronounced.

Illustrated by Elliot Dold

by Raymond

Z. Gallun

“Radioactive, too,” Spears added
“This stuff is far heavier than
stance I know of. That means that
the atoms which compose it are much
more complex — have a greater munber
of protons and electrons in their struc-
ture — than even those of radium and
uranium. And complex and heavy
atoms, not including those of lead and
gold and so forth, which are compara-
tively light, are always radioactive,
think we’ve found something this time,
Nix. Here, lift it yourself.”

Caution prompted the youth to wrap
his gloved hand in a piece of
which was lying near, before he
plied. “Can’t be too careful, doctor,”
he admonished. “Radium emanations
can produce devilish bums unless you’re
shielded from them; and you can’t tell
what the emanations of this new stuff
will do, even if the exposure is
momentary.”

The bit of mineral was no larger than
a marble, and yet its weight was
to that of a five-inch ball of steel,
muttered his surprise as he wrapped the
thing in the lead-cloth and laid it
fully on the control table, out of
way.

“We ought to report our
diately to the boys on the surface,
that they’ll know, in case we
back,” he advised as he turned on
lights.

“That’s just what I’m going to do,”
Spears responded. “We couldn’t afford
to lose credit for a discovery like this.”

ALREADY he had donned the head-
phones of the apparatus by means of
which they maintained communication
with the upper world. Radio had been
deemed impractical to use at this great
depth; and so a device which amplified

100

ASTOUNDING STORIES

enormously the vibrations of the human
voice, and transmitted them through the
miles of rock intervening between the
mechanical mole and the upper air, had
been substituted.

The surface crew had delicate in-
struments which could detect and
amplify these vibrations, converting
them back into normal human tones.
The “sonorator,” as the apparatus was
called, had proved ideal. The principle
by which it functioned was the same as
that by which a man can hear the
pounding of distant horses’ hoofs by
placing his ear to the ground.

“Subterrine, M-1 calling ” Spears

said into the microphone. Then he
stopped and glanced, frowning, at the
bank of meters before him. “My words
aren’t getting out, Nix,’’ he commented.
“We’d feel the vibrations shaking the
old boat if they were. According to
the instruments, every part of the outfit
that we can reach is in working order.

“That can mean only one thing: The
big sonorator rod at the stern — the thing
that transmits the vibrations of our
voices to the rock — was fused and
ruined by the heat of the lava pocket
we bumped into. It’s out of commis-
sion, and it’s where we can’t get at it
to make repairs.’’ The scientist bit his
lip ruefully.

“Anyway, we can still receive
messages from above,’’ said Nixon.
“See! The signal light is burning.
Zabideff must be talking now, doctor!’’

“Right!” Spears confirmed briefly.

Nixon put on his headset, and for a
moment the two subterranean explorers
listened to what their surface man was
saying. Spears was rubbing his hands
absently, as though he was only sub-
consciously aware that they did not feel
comfortable. The drill was grinding
and rumbling on, deeper and deeper
into the earth’s crust.

Alexis Zabidefll’s voice spoke calmly .
in their phones: “We know that you

are still making progress by the vibra-
tions of the drill, and we can of course
determine your position by noting the
angles from which they come. How-'
ever, we’d feel easier, fellows, if you’d
communicate with us. Some dangerous
things have happened. It’s beginning
to look as though the subterrine has
disturbed the inner equilibrium of the
earth.

“There has been a severe quake in
Chicago, and many other slighter seismic
disturbances within a radius of five
hundred miles from the point where
you started out. And the loose soil
which fills the tunnel into which the drill
bored is beginning to smolder. Pro-
fessor Payson feels that lava may be
forced up through the broken rock
which fills the tunnel, forming a dan-
gerous artificial volcano here.

“I don’t want to spread false alarms,
but we may soon be regarded as respon-
sible for a certain amount of damage.
It would be better for you to turn back
now. And by all means communicate
at once and tell us how you are. Stand-
ing by ”

“Damn!” Nixon burst out irritably.
“He ”

The young man got no further.
There was a jarring groan within the
myriad cubic miles of rock about them,
and the subterrine shuddered convul-
sively before it continued on its way.

“Zabideff seems to be right, after
all,” Nixon conceded in a different tone.
“Old Terra Firma has got the jitters!

I guess we poked up her internal fires
plenty when we ran into that lava
pocket. We’re starting back for the
surface before we do any more damage.”

He leaned from his chair, grabbed a
lever and pulled it gingerly. The sub-
terrine began to turn in its course,
grinding around in an arc that in a short
time would bring the machine back to
vertical with its nose pointed upward.
The cylindrical cabin, supported on

THE WAND OF CREATION

101

universal joints, swung easily in its
cradle, its floor always remaining down-
ward.

THE SAVANT made no comment
upon his companion’s decision. He had
loosened one of his cuffs and had rolled
up a "sleeve of his sleek leather coverall.
Now he was staring with a sort of sur-
prised fascination at his bare forearm.

“Look, Nix,” he sai(i so quietly that
it was difficult to hear him above the
din of busy mechanisms. “Are you
displaying any of these symptoms?”

The youth leaned toward Spears’
chair, his eyes narrowing in worried
puzzlement. The skin of the savant’s
arm, moist with perspiration, had a
greenish, slimy coating, and the flesh
was lumpy. The lumps, which were
just beneath the surface, seemed to move
and pulsate regularly, with a rhythm
too slow to have any relationship to the
human pulse.

“That piece of radioactive mineral
there — its emanations are responsible,”
Nixon pronounced, pointing at the wad
of lead-cloth lying on the table, in which
the opal-sheened black fragment was
concealed. “You were a little careless
in handling it, doctor, and it burned
you just as radium or X-rays would
have done.”

“But these aren’t like radium or
X-ray burns,” Spears shot back, his
plump red face serious and strained.
“There are no abrasions, and the flesh
is not raw or sore. But my arms and
hands feel numb and heavy, and there’s
an aching sensation around the bones.
I feel sick. Better check up on your-
self, Nix. I’ll grant that radioactive
emanations are probably responsible
for all this ; but I’m sure that their effect
is something far different from any-
thing with which we have previously
been acquainted.”

The excitement of adventure had
kept Nixon’s physical sensations in the
background. Now, however, when his

attention was drawn to them, he
realized that his head and eyes ached
painfully and that his stomach seemed
upset. His limbs were almost without
feeling. Unfastening the sleeves and
front of his coverall, he saw that his
arms and chest were marked with the
same malignant symptoms which Dr.
Spears exhibited — ^thick pulsating lumps
beneath a greenish, slimy skin. His
lips were dry, and there was a bitter
taste in his mouth.

“There does appear to be something
wrong with us, doctor,” Nixon admitted.
“But I suppose it’s all in the day’s work.
I need a drink of water.”

He arose from his chair and strode
unsteadily on stiff, rheumatic legs
toward the water tank. A thought
came to him : Was the air of’ the cabin
being poisoned by the inward seepage
of volcanic gases from outside? He
sniffed critically. There was the usual
smell of hot oil an'd a slight musty odor
reminiscent of a dank cellar, but that
was all. The air-purifying system was
functioning perfectly, and, besides, the
cabin was of stout, seamless steel which
could not be sprung. There was no
opening in it by which gases could enter.
Even the sample-receiving tube was
protected by several automatic valves.

Nixon dismissed tbe idea and drew
a glass of water from the tap. It did
not take more than a glance at the fluid
to convince him that there was some-
thing devilishly and breath-takingly
wrong with it. Instead of being clear
and pure, as it had been a short hour
before, it was green and thick, emit-
ting a fetid stench like water dipped
from a stagnant pool in midsummer.

“Damn!” he swore. “Doctor, come
here !”

Spears was already at his side, having
left the controls of the subterrine mo-
mentarily in tbe care of the automatic
piloting device. Nixon held the tum-
bler up to the light, and tc^ether they
examined its contents. Thousands of

102

ASTOUNDING STORIES

tiny green specks and threads of living
matter swirled busily in the water,
which so recently had been practically
sterile.

And then the second earthquake
temblor, which was strong enough to
be felt above the rattle of the drill,
struck. It was like the first in violence
and was as quickly over. The door of
a cabinet containing food supplies burst
open. A large tin box tumbled out of
it and fell with a clattering sound to the
steel floor.

“There go our sandwiches!” Nixon
remarked in an attempt at lightness.
Then he stared at the box like one
hypnotized.

It lay on its side with the lid open;
and there welled from it, not sand-
wiches but a jellylike mass of ooze that
possessed a motion of its own. Some-
how it was ghoulishly and unbelievably
alive. It crept out of the tin and started
aimlessly across the floor, doubling it-
self along like a huge, shapeless inch-
worm.

Other foodstuffs had undergone the
same transformation. There were
slithering, plopping sounds as several
similar gobs of living jelly dropped
from the cabinet. Only the canned
goods seemed the same, and who knew
what the opening of one of the cans
might reveal?

IMPULSIVELY Nixon kicked one
of the advancing masses of ooze furi-
ously, but the several spattered parts
into which it was divided as a result of
the blow continued sluggishly forward,
undaunted. The youth gave an inarticu-
late gurgle of revulsion and amazement.

The scientist grasped him by the
shoulder. “They’re some very low form
of creature,” he said with suppressed
excitement. “Probably not much more
than masses of protoplasm. I don’t
think they have the power to do us any
harm — not until they grow bigger at
least. I’ve just been rummaging

through the medicine kit, and I found
this ointment. It probably won’t do
any good, but I’m going to rub some
of it on my arms and body just the
same. You do likewise.”

Spears scooped a generous portion of
the white greasy stuff onto his fingers
and handed' the box of ointment to his
companion.

Somewhat dazedly Nixon returned
to the controls, which it was unsafe to
leave guided only by the automatic pilot
for too long a time. Then he began
salving himself. GlcUicing back he saw
that Spears, heavy and old, and now ill
with a mysterious and sinister affliction
that had brought an odd look of death
to his eyes, still had the energy to be
intensely busy.

Now he was examining a bit of one
of the protoplasmic creatures under a
microscope. Now he was hurrying
toward the control table, where the
lump of radioactive mineral still lay in
its shielding wrapper of lead-cloth.
Gingerly he picked it up and carried it
back to his workbench with a small
tongs.

“What’s up, doc?” Nixon inquired,
a trifle unsteadily.

“Something big,” was Spears’ level

answer. “Something which Well,

wait till I finish what I’m doing.”

Nixon’s attention was distracted from
the experiment. The red signal bulb,
announcing an incoming message,
burned on the switchboard. In a
moment he had the phones on his head,
listening to Zabideff’s tense words ;

“We haven’t yet received any report
from you aboard the M-1. Can you
hear us? Is your transmitting appara-
tus damaged? We are still able to pick
up the vibration of the drill inter-
mittently. The seismic disturbances
blur it out frequently. Chicago is being
shaken to pieces. We’ve had to move
our equipment to the open country. A
lot of pec^le have been killed. A
violent eruption of volcanic matter from

THE WAND OF CREATION

103

the tunnel mouth is certain within the
next two hours ”

Zabideff’s voice was drowned by a
grumbling growl, produced in the
phones by the tortured, quaking rock of
the earth’s crust above.

“Damn !’’ Nixon murmured wearily.
“There’s going to be hell up there ! We
caused it, but we can’t stop it. And
we’re done for ourselves; even if we
could, by some miracle, fight our way
back to the surface, this disease, or
whatever it is, would finish us.’’

He raised his hands and passed them
across his burning eyes, like lifeless
clubs, knotted and swollen. Tiny red
dots danced before his vision. It
wouldn’t be long before he’d be un-
conscious. Well, anyway the drill was
now moving straight upward.

Spears’ voice, shouting in hoarse tri-
umph, caused him to look atound. The
old man was tottering, clinging with
clumsy hands to a stanchion to keep his
balance. And yet, ill though he was,
he was still dominated by the imquench-
able enthusiasm of the true scientist.

“We’ve done it, Nix!’’ he yelled
raspingly. “We’ve made the greatest
biological discovery of all time ! We’ve
found the mineral which is literally the
wand of creation! Arrhenius’ theory
of life-spores, propagated throughout
the universe by light pressure, was
wrong. We’re forever famous, Nix —
if we can somehow communicate our
find to the surface.’’

“I don’t quite follow you, doctor.
Explain,’’ Nixon commanded with an
icy calm which showed that his emo-
tions no longer were aroused.

SPEARS edged his way to the pilot
chairs and dropped weakly into the
vacant one. “I forget that you are more
adventurer than scientist, boy,” he said.
“I’ll try to clear things up for you.
The theory of evolution explains how,
by a process of natural selection, all the
complex life-forms, both jJant and

animal, that have ever existed on the
face of the earth were developed.

“The common ancestors of all were
microscopic one-celled infusoria and
bacteria, which were the only living
things upon our planet during early
Eozoic times, countless millions of years
ago. From these first simple fauna and
flora, all the trees, birds, mammals, and
so forth, even the human race itself, are
descended. Through variations in in-
dividual characteristics, the survival of
those individuals who were most fitted
to cope with their environment, and the
passing on of their favorable character-
istics to their offspring, the miralce of
the animals, plants, and humans of
to-day was accomplished.

“All this is quite clear. But how, in
the beginning, when the earth was still
sterile, yet ready to receive life, did
these first ancestral microorganisms
come into existence? How did the in-
animate become animate? It was a
question not easily answered.

“In the early twentieth century,
Arrhenius, a brilliant Scandinavian
scientist, suggested that minute life-
spores, in a state of suspended anima-
tion in which condition they could
withstand ages of darkness and absolute
cold, might have been propelled across
space by light pressure from some
distant world, where plants and animals
already existed, and have thus reached
our earth, where conditions were favor-
able to their growth. Until now that
was the only reasonable explanation of
the manner in which living things first
came into being on the terrestrial
surface.

“However, we have the real, the true
answer, now, Nix. Those original
microorganisms were actually created
from inorganic matter by the stimulat-
ing influence of an emanation thrown
off by an exceedingly radioactive ele-
ment. The piece of black mineral we
took from the sample tube is a salt of
that element. When I dropped it into

104

ASTOUNDING STORIES

that beaker of strained water, I found
this out. I saw thousands of tiny
squirming amoebae take form before
my eyes.

■‘Our troubles began when our drill
grazed that lava pocket. It was much
deeper in the earth than any pocket
which could have found an outlet to the
surface in any ordinary circumstances.
Doubtless the molten rock contained
considerable quantities of the radio-
active element. The small fragment of
mineral we examined must not be
blamed for all that happened, though
I’ve thrown it into the excavators now.

“Doubtless the emanations were
streaming through the cabin walls in
enormous volumes from outside. What
happened? In every substance that
could support life, living protoplasm
was created! Our food became gobs
of animated jelly, in which millions of
cells were bunched together, capable in
some way of functioning sluggishly as
one animal. Our water was contami-
nated with microorganisims ; and our
flesh, really a marvelous soil for micro-
scopic growths, became the habitat of
millions of tiny creatures which had not
been there before. Some of them are
probably the bacteria of deadly new
diseases. That is why we are ill, Nix.”

Almost unaware of the intermittent
and ever-increasing thunder of the
earthquake now going on around and
above them, Nixon had drunk in the
words of his chief, held in a spell of
sheer fascination.

“One thing I don’t get, doctor,” he
said huskily. “If the emanations of this
element created life in the upper world
in the beginning, why isn’t the process
still going on there? What happened
to the element?”

“Quite simple,” Spears shot back.
“Radioactive disintegration explains it.
Radium, as you know, changes to lead
in time, any given amount of it being
almost completely transformed within
a few thousand years. Our new ele-

ment is doubtless more radioactive than
radium and would decay more quickly;
nor would it be replaced by the disin-
tegration of more complex elements, as
radium is, by the breaking up of
uranium.

“Very early it had probably almost
disappeared in the upper world. By
now it has practically or entirely van-
ished on the surface of the earth. Here,
where great pressure and primitive
volcanic conditions prevail, its disin-
tegration was somehow arrested, an<l it
still exists in large quantities. It may
be that there are faint traces of it on
the suface, even now. New diseases
appear occasionally, you know, and
cancer — ^the phenomenal and still un-
explained growth of cancer cells — may
be the result of the presence of an
infinitesimal particle of the element in
the human system.

“But we should not be wasting time
talking. We’ve got to inform the upper
world of our discovery. I’m old, and
all my life, boy, I’ve dreamed of doing
something big like this. We can’t
waste our chance of really amounting
to something in the field of science.
Some way, somehow, we’ve got to re-
pair that sonorator, so that we can tell
the world what we’ve done, if we don’t

get back. Do you hear, Nix ”

Spears’ voice trailed away.

Fc^gily, Nixon sat looking at his
chief’s inert body. His bald pate was
shiny with sweat; his face and arms
were marked with huge greenish lumps.
The old savant’s excitement, coupled
with the ravages of whatever deadly
malady was gnawing at him, had caused
him to lose consciousness.

THE SIGNAL light of the sonorator
receiving apparatus was burning again.
Automatically Nixon pushed the phones
over his ears to listen to what Alexis
Zabideff had to say, coming brokenly
through the rifts in the seismic static:

“Volcanic eruption expected to start

THE WAND OF CREATION

105

within fifteen minutes^ — Refugees

fleeing We’ve had to move sono-

rator apparatus still farther back. Can
detect your presence now and then, but
as yet there is no word from you ”

The communication broke off. Simul-
taneously the subterrine gave a lurch,
and then there was the shrill whine of
the great drill spinning loosely in air.

This unexpected development evoked
no immediate action on Nixon’s part.
He sat pensively, his aching eyes wide
and staring, as if he was gazing into
another plane of existence. He was
thinking not of fame as Spears had been
—not even so much of the destruction
and death the earthquake was bringing
to the world above. A fearful inspira-
tion had come to him: What if some
of that element, which was the wand of
creation, was to be discharged out of
time by that artificial volcano, into the
world of mankind? What dread
horrors would it bring? What exter-
minating plagues? What devilish
monsters of protoplasm would rule the
planet, disposing of the human race?
Most important of all, what could one
lone man, sick and perhaps dying, do
to avert such a catastrophe?

He considered these things quickly,
grimly ; then he shut off the racing drill.
On limbs that seemed to be comp>osed
more of wood and stone than of flesh, he
made his way to the door of the cabin,
a flashlight clutched in his almost-
nerveless fingers. Nightmarish things
of jelly scuttled about his stumbling
feet. The inner and outer portals of
the subterrine, mechanically operated,
clanged open at a touch, and he clam-
bered forth into Stygian darkness.

His flashlight beam played ahead of
him over a rough, stony floor. The air
was stifling, and there was the roar of
a waterfall mingling with the trembling
groan of the earthquake. He was in a
vast cavern. How vast? One hundred
miles wide, or a thousand? His light
revealed no boundaries. Even the roof

was completely lost to view; but from
it, immense chunks of rock, dislodged
by the constant shaking of the earth,
plummeted down thunderously.

And then, out of the chaos of Nixon’s
mind, a plan came. His jaws tightened.
As quickly as he could he reentered the
subterrine, closed the doors, and started
the drill. Turning the steering gear, he
guided the vehicle back into the rock.
With a protesting snarl it continued on
its way.

Two facts were uppermost in Nixon’s
mind : One was that the dangerous lava
pocket, that so threatened the upper
world, was not far above. He was now
beaded straight toward it. The other
fact was that if you fed uranium fuel
too rapidly to an atomic motor, the
motor would blow up ; the shock would
be conveyed to the fuel drums, and then
there would be an explosion of un-
imaginable violence. There was a safety
st(^ to prevent the throttle from being
pulled too far, but it could be fused off
with a blast-welder.

Quickly he accomplished this small
task.

There was another important thing
to be done. No one must ever tap this
region of dread force again. A warn-
ing must be sent. He had a way of
doing that, too — one that had a fair
chance of being successful. He gripped
the throttle, moving it back and forth
with quick, precisely timed jerks. In
response the great drill snarled and
ebb^, forming dots and dashes in the
almost-obsolete Morse code. Alexis
Zabideff’s sonorator receiver should be
able to pick up the vibrations.

Nixon had paid no attention to
Spears ; but now the old man regained
a sluggish, half consciousness.

“Maybe we’ve got our discovery
across to them, doctor,’’ the youth said
cheerily. He added no more, but a
faint answering grin flickered on the
elderly savant’s face.

The high readings of the temperature

106

ASTOUNDING STORIES

meters showed that the lava pocket was
very near.

Nixon jerked the throttle lever far
back, beyond the point where the safety
stop had been. His senses registered
no more after that.

IN THE UPPER world a terrific
concussion was felt. Then the forces
that had convulsed the crust of the
planet slowly died away.

A large auto truck, which housed a
complicated sonorator apparatus, stood
parked in an open field. Within it,
Alexis ZabidetT sat hunched at a small
desk, scrutinizing a paper upon which
he had traced a few cryptic words, which
he read over and over again :

Have found huge cavern. Will try to
drain lava pocket into it by exploding
subterrine. Hope will reduce lava pres-
sure and prevent eruption. Have found
radioactive element which changes food,
et cetera, to living protoplasm. Spears
says created first life on earth. Lava full
of element. Dangerous to human life.
No one should come here again. Luck.

NIX.

ZabidefFs broad Slavic visage
registered certain facial gymnastics.
“Glorious young fool!” he muttered
admiringly. “But the adventure must

have driven him mad. At least this
twaddle about a radioactive element
looks mad.” Zabideff paused. His lofty
forehead crinkled thoughtfully.

“Maybe he’s right, after all !” he
burst out suddenly. “Who can be sure ?
I’m going to find out ! We’ll build
another subterrine! Lead armor should
afford adequate protection from any-
thing radioactive, and with sufficient
care no seismic disturbances need be
stirred up.

“Reyburn!” he called to the driver
of the truck. “Start back to head-
quarters immediately.”

And far underground, a river of
molten rock flowed from a gigantic rift
in the wall of a seemingly boundless
cavern, and meandered across its floor,
illuminating the place with a murky,
infernal light. Water hissed angrily in
the path of the lava stream, solidifying
some of it. Lumps of a black lustrous
mineral appeared in the hardened slag;
and in pools near by minute bits of life
began to squirm. The wand of crea-
tion had touched a barren, sterile world.

In the middle of the molten river, a
curved plate of metal, which may once
have been part of something fabricated
by human hands, drifted idly.

NEXT MONTH

An outstanding author of the weird story steps into science-fiction
with a tale that is highly imaginative and disturbingly different.
THE BRIGHT ILLUSION, by C. L. Moore, reveals a planet of
indescribable beauty — and horror. You will remember it.

The Stolen Element

“Turn off the power, man!
Open the tube and let us ex-
amine the new metal!”

A whimsical story of knowl-
edge without understanding!

Illustrated by Elliot Bold

by Paul Ernst

T he laboratory, one of the

best equipped in Italy, was in
the semidarkness of the Neapol-
itan dusk. In the middle of the room
a giant vacuum tube reflected light from
the glinting small mass of metallic salts
within it. A hum of power sounded.

The metallic salts in the tube were
those of uranium. The uranium was
being bombarded with neutrons. Pres-
ently, by a marvelous modem alchemy,
the uranium should become another ele-
ment — a. new element, never in exist-
ence before as far as science knew. It

108

ASTOUNDING STORIES

had not even a name, as yet. It was
known only as No. 93.

With his weary, seamed face twisted
in concentration, the brilliant Italian sci-
entist, Vichoni, watched the metallic
lump in the tube. His black eyes were
sunk deep in his head from exhaustion.
His stumpy body was bowed with
fatigue.

Beside him was a statesman, a man
whose name was known internationally.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with iron-
gray hair, he watched the tube with
equal intentness.

“It is the first time I have tried the
experiment on a large scale,” Vichoni
muttered, more to himself than to the
statesman beside him. “Before, I have
bombarded only a few uranium atoms
with neutrons. Always the experiments
have been successful and the new ele-
ment, 93, has emerged. Now, attempt-
ing to turn such a large mass into 93,
we may fail. We may not have enough
power. It may be impossible to gen-
erate enough power.”

He jerked his head toward one of two
assistants who worked with him in the
laboratory. This man, a tall, burly fel-
low with a dark, impassive face, moved
the graduated power switch up to its
last notch. The power hum grew
shriller.

“I still cannot believe,” said the states-
man. “In the old days it was held im-
possible to transmute one element into
another. That is why they were called
elements; they were thought to be sub-
stances reduced to their last simplicity,
the unchanging bricks from which the
universe is built.”

A weary smile passed over Vichoni’s
lips. “I know. The old alchemists bent
over stews containing bats’ wings, pow-
dered horn of unicorn, lead, and gold,
and attempted to change the base metal
into gold. Magic, it was thought to be.
But if that is magic, the modem scientist
is a magician. For with this process
base metal can be changed into gold.”

“But how?” demanded the statesman,
wide-eyed. “How ?”

With his eyes constantly on the big
vacuum tube, Vichoni explained. “There
are ninety-two elements. They are num-
bered in order, from one to ninety-two,
according to the number of surplus pro-
tons, or particles, with a positive electric
charge, in their nuclei. Thus hydrogen
is No. 1. It has but one proton in its
nucleus. Uranium, which we are work-
ing with now, is the end of the list —
No. 92. That is because it has ninety-
two protons in its nucleus.

“This is the only difference between
elements — the number of surplus pro-
tons in their nuclei. Add protons, and
you change elements; iron, with a few
extra protons forced into each atqm,*
becomes gold. In the present case we
take uranium, which has ninety-two pro-
tons, and add one more which makes it
a new element with ninety-three in its
nucleus.”

“And you add protons at will by this
‘bombarding,’ as you call it?” said the
statesman.

“Yes. The uranium in that tube is
being bombarded by an unseen stream
of force particles called neutrons. A
neutron consists of one proton, or posi-
tively charged particle, and one elec-
tron, or negatively charged particle.
When the neutrons are shot into the
cores of the uranium atoms, they split.
The electrons fly out. The protons
alone stay in. Thus as many surplus
protons can be added as you please —
in this case only one to an atom, which
makes our uranium a new element like
nothing ever seen on earth before.”

“Iron into gold, uranium into No. 93,”
mused the statesman. He smiled a lit-
tle. “Old dreams die hard. Gold has
been man’s god for so many centuries
that now even I find it hard to get it
out of my mind. It seems to me that
if you can change any element into any
other element, there should be no ques-
tion of what you should change into

THE STOLEN ELEMENT

109

which. My first impulse would be to
change the iron into the gold.”

The scientist shrugged scornfully.
“Gold? What is gold? Nothing but
the measure of wealth. You can’t make
an3^hing of it but ornaments. It hasn’t
a hundredth the real value of iron. But
my No. 93 will be useful. It is the
hardest substance known to man, for
one thing. Reflect what could be done
with a metal that will cut steel as if it
were cheese.”

The statesman nodded. “Such a
metal would make us supreme in war,
the greatest nation on earth. Actually,
of course, it makes the turning of base
metals into precious ones seem of little
importance.”

THE TWO men were paying no at-
tention to the assistant at the power
switch. But the man was listening in-
tently to them.

In the dark eyes of Carlo, chief labo-
ratory assistant to Vichoni, was a glitter
of greed. So the making of gold from
iron seemed of little importance to Vi-
choni and the statesman, eh? It did
not seem of little importance to Carlo.
He knew many things he could do if he
was master of turning iron into gold.

The greed in his eyes w’as reflected
on the face of Farnese, the other man
who assisted Vichoni in his State-sub-
sidized laboratory. Famese was a small
man with a rat face and beady small
eyes in which shone distorted intelli-
gence.

But the two subordinates kept silence,
and Vichoni and the statesman continued
to pay no attention to them.

“A new metal so hard that- it would
turn aside all enemy projectiles and
pierce all enemy defenses,” mused the
statesman. “A marvelous achievement !
But, tell me, isn’t this present experi-
ment about completed?”

Vichoni stared at the big vacuum tube
and gnawed his lips. “It has been com-
pleted for many minutes — ^if the experi-

ment can be a success on so large a
scale. After absorbing the neutrons
shot at it, uranium converts itself very
quickly into No. 93.”

“Then turn off the power, man !
Open the tube and let us examine the
new metal. What are we waiting for?”

Vichoni sighed. “I have not told you
all the story. It is easy to change ura-
nium into 93 with this equipment. It
can be done quickly and surely — at least
in small amounts. But it is not so easy
to keep 93 once you have it.

“93, with chemical properties analo-
gous to those of manganese, is highly
radioactive. It does not stay placed. It
destroys itself by its own emanations.
You see, the surplus proton driven into
each atom by my neutron bombardment
will not stay in that atom. The pro-
ton, forced into an artificial prison, fights
its way out again and flies away. I have
observed the phenomenon again and
again. I have timed it.

“In thirteen and one half minutes the
surplus protons driven into the uranium
atoms to make 93 fade slowly out again
in the form of radioactive emanations.
Then our 93 is once more — simply ura-
nium, the metal we started with. It is
the same with other elements. In thir-
teen and one half minutes gold which
is made from iron loses its artificially
added protons and becomes mere iron
again.

“I have found how to change one
element into another, yes. Now the big
problem is to make the change perma-
nent — to make the surplus protons stay
in the atoms into which they have been
driven. In this present experiment I
am hoping to do that by continuing to
bombard the uranium in this tube long
after it has become No. 93. Perhaps
then the added proton will stay in its
atom and we shall have an unchanging
new metal to work with.”

“But surely,” urged the statesman,
“the biggest problem has been the chang-
ing itself. Surely, having solved that.

ASTOUNDING STORIES

you can solve the other and make your
changes permanent.”

Vichoni shrugged. “Man may never
discover how to make the change perma-
nent. He may change one element into
another. He may observe the change.
Then he may always be forced to watch
helplessly while his artificial element
fades back to the element ordained by
nature.”

At the power switch, Carlo, the un-
obtrusive assistant, turned quickly to
hide a bleak smile which touched his
thin lips.

Vichoni was a great man, and he.
Carlo, was unheard-of. Vichoni knew
more about science than Carlo could
ever learn.

But in the transmutation of elements
it happened that Carlo was Vichoni’s
master, though no one but the ratlike
Famese dreamed that.

Iron into gold! Billions for the man
who could turn iron into gold — and
make it stay gold !

And Carlo could do that. By acci-
dent he had hit upon a method of doing
something that even his illustrious chief
could not do. He could change ele-
ments by adding protons — ^and make the
protons stay permanently in their new
home.

With the addition of simple, but ex-
pensive, equipment. Carlo knew he could
take the apparatus of Vichoni’s and make
gold that would stay gold — not gold that
would revert to iron in thirteen and a
half minutes.

CARLO had it all worked out. He
needed Vichoni’s laboratory and equip-
ment. He needed money for the new
apparatus. Once he had the laboratory
he could get immediate cash by a judi-
cious use of the new element, 93, and
then he could buy the apparatus. It
was simple.

He glanced across at the intent sci-
entist, Vichoni, and in his eyes was cold,
calm murder.

“We’ll take the stuff out of the tube
now,” Vichoni was saying. “Then we’ll
see if it stays as it is, or if it reverts
to uranium.”

At his signal. Carlo expressionlessly
turned off the switch. Vichoni opened
the tube. There was a diamond drill
point near by. He snatched it up and
drew it heavily across the small button
of metal taken from the tube.

No mark of any kind appeared on the
surface of the metal.

“It’s 93 !” breathed Vichoni. “It can
be made in any quantity, then.”

They watched the new element. The
scientist held his watch in his hand anx-
iously ticking off the seconds.

Thirteen and one half minutes! In
that short time, always before, his 93
had inexorably lost its added protons
and faded back to uranium. Would that
happen this time, in spite of the extra
bombardment of neutrons?

He sighed raggedly. The hand hold-
ing his watch trembled a little. The
statesman took time off from scientific
matters to become human.

“You’re overtired,” he told Vichoni.
“You’re exhausted. You must rest.
Think of the value of your life to the
State while you complete this process
of yours.”

“I am tired,” admitted the scientist.
“Night and day, for many months, I
have worked at this. I shall take a
month’s vacation at once.”

Carlo, the brawny assistant, glanced
quickly at the ratlike Farnese. The
smaller man nodded to show that he
comprehended.

A month’s vacation for Vichoni !
That meant that if something sinister
happened to the scientist it would be a
month before it was discovered. If he
disappeared now it would simply be as-
sumed that he had gone to some obscure
place, incognito, for a good rest.

And in a month Carlo could make
himself wealthy enough, by laboratory

THE STOLEN ELEMENT

111

process, to be above all the laws of man,
including those against murder.

Vichoni, watch in hand, counted the
slow minutes.

Twelve. Thirteen. Thirteen and a
half.

The button of mysterious new metal,
element 93, was crumbling into the
metallic salts of uranium again.

The statesman caught Vichoni as he
tottered from disappointment added to
his exliaustion.

“They won’t stay,” almost sobbed the
scientist. “Always the protons fade out.
Always!”

“It’s all right, my friend,” said the
statesman. “You will succeed in time.
You will find a way to make those devil-
ish protons stay in their atoms.”

“Perhaps, in time.” Vichoni sighed.
“But I want to do it quickly. Of late
I have had a strange premonition that
I have not long to live.”

And Carlo, the burly assistant who by
accident possessed the key to the riddle
his chief was struggling so hard to un-
lock, smiled a little. For the premoni-
tion of Vichoni was soon to be justi-
fied.

CARLO and Famese stayed behind
in the laboratory as Vichoni went to
the street door with the statesman.

“A month’s vacation!” Farnese whis-
pered. “In a month the equipment you
need can be manufactured, and we can
start making gold from iron.”

Carlo glanced at the door to be sure
Vichoni was not returning. “It will not
take a month for the equipment to be
made. It is made now, ready to be de-
livered when paid for. Three months
ago I placed the order with a firm in
Naples, giving a false name.”

“Then you knew three months ago
that you would kill Vichoni?”

“I knew it a year ago!” said Carlo
with cold ferocity. “When I discov-
ered how to transmute elements and

then make the change permanent, I knew
that I would one day kill Vichoni to
get his laboratory. That day has come
— with his statement that he is to re-
tire for a month’s rest. A month ? He
shall rest for longer than that.”

Steps sounded in the long corridor
leading to the laboratory.

“Here he comes,” whispered Farnese.
“Shall — it be now?”

Carlo nodded, his eyes like ice. “As
well now as to-night or next week.”

He picked up an iron bar and stepped
to the door leading from the laboratory
to the corridor. He partly closed the
door and stood behind it, with the bar
upraised.

Vichoni came toward the door. He
was a tired, elderly man, and his step
showed it. His feet lagged; he looked
neither to right nor left nor ahead.
Carlo’s hands tensed on the bar.

It was ridiculously easy.

Vichoni stepped into the laboratory,
saw Farnese and started to say some-
thing to him. Carlo brought the bar
down with all the force of his heavy
shoulders.

There was a vat of sulphuric acid in
the basement under the laboratory. The
vat was large enough to hold a body.

Carlo dragged the dead scientist down
to the vat while Farnese, face white and
hands quivering, cleaned the laboratory
floor of blood.

Vichoni’s laboratory and splendid sci-
entific equipment were in Carlo’s bloody
hands. Six blocks away, in a manufac-
turer’s warehouse, was the additional
equipment needed for turning common
iron into gold that would stay gold.

Now all Carlo needed was some two
hundred thousand lire to pay for the
new equipment. And he knew how to
get that, all right. He had plotted it
out months ago.

He was going to get it from the rich
miser. La Paglia, who lived with his
hoarded wealth on the Via Roma.

112

ASTOUNDING STORIES

THE FOLLOWING noon Farnese
and Carlo watched while another metal
object lay in the big vacuum tube and
was bombarded with neutrons according
to the Vichoni process.

Iron into gold, gold into uranium, ura-
nium into 93 — a sort of modern super-
alchemy !

But Carlo’s face was cold, almost in-
different. This was but a step in be-
coming a sort of a golden god by being
able to create as much wealth as he
wanted. Also he was less interested
than he might have been because this
was the second time the metal in the
tube had gone through the elemental
scale from iron to 93. The first time.
Carlo had held a watch on it, to discover
precisely how long it took the resultant
93 to revert to uranium, then to gold,
then finally back to its original iron.
This second time was the one that
counted in his scheme.

However, Farnese was not indifferent.
The little man was a rabbit in his lack
of physical courage. Normally he was
full of fears; now he was terror-
stricken !

“How do you dare handle 93?” he
quavered. “How do you dare? Never
yet has the new element been handled
as you plan to do now. Who knows
what it may do to you?”

Carlo glared at him. Farnese was a
weakling. Carlo realized now that he
should never have taken him into his
confidence. He also realized that he had
better kill him as soon as the new equip-
ment had been set up with his help.

“What can 93 do to me ?” he grunted
contemptuously. “You talk as if it
was some kind of magic stuff. It’s only
a metal — a new metal, hitherto unknown
to nature or to man, but still just a metal.
How could it harm me?”

“Who knows?” said Farnese, shiver-
ing a little. “Vichoni manufactured a
thing against the laws of God when he
made an element. It is not man’s work
to make things so mighty as elements.

'Think! A new substance in the uni-
verse ! Who can tell what horrible
powers the unknown stuff might have ?”
“Be practical,” snapped Carlo.
“You’re only talking superstition.”
“Very well; I’ll be practical,” said
Farnese. “One thing we do know about
93 is that it is highly radioactive. It
may bum you mortally to carry such a
large chunk of it next to your body.”
Carlo shook his head impatiently. “I
won’t be in contact with it long enough.
You know how we have this planned
out, after observing the time taken for
93 to lose its protons and become iron
again.

“Thirteen and a half minutes to
change from 93 to uranium. Thirteen
and a half more to fade from uranium
to gold. Another thirteen and a half be-
fore the gold returns to iron. Very
well; I shall take exactly twenty-seven
minutes from here to the house of the
miser. La Paglia. Then the bar of 93
I carried in my sleeve from this labora-
tory shall have become the bar of gold
I show La Paglia. Long before the
thirteen and a half minutes are up and
the gold becomes iron, I shall have sold
the bar to La Paglia for enongh to pay
for the new equipment. Thus, you see,
I shall have the 93 next to my skin for
only a short time. And what can any
metal, no matter how mysterious, do in
a few minutes?”

“You don’t know,” whimpered Far-
nese. “Nobody knows what dread prop-
erties this new element may have.”
“Nonsense I”

“Why make the iron into 93? Why
not stop the process with uranium and
carry that known element to La Pa-
glia’s?”

“Because,” rasped Carlo, “the ura-
nium would fade to gold in only thirteen
and a half minutes, instead of the
twenty-seven it will take 93 to fade to
gold. We could not get from here to
La Paglia’s in thirteen minutes unless
we had wings.” He glanced at his

AST— 7

THE STOLEN ELEMENT

113

watch. “Get Vichoni’s car out of the
garage.”

Farnese left the laboratory. Carlo
stared at the vacuum tube.

The object in it was — or had been —
the iron bar which had crushed Vicho-
ni’s skull. A plain round bar, it had
changed from ir<m to gold and then
through uranium to 93. Now all was
in readiness for Carlo’s plan to get cash
for his equipment.

CARLO stepped across the walk and
into the car of his dead chief. His left
arm hung stiff. Thrust up his left
sleeve, resting against his bare flesh and
held in place by his cupped hand, was
the bar of 93. An eighteen-inch bar,
very heavy, it could be carried concealed
better that way than any other.

Famese, at Carlo’s command, drove
.slowly off toward the Via Roma.

Carlo kept his watch in hand, timing
the procedure.

In twenty-seven minutes from the
time he had left the laboratory he must
be entering La Paglia’s study. At that
moment the bar of 93 he carried in his
sleeve would have radiated enough sur-
plus protons to become a bar of pure
gold. In the thirteen and a half min-
utes during which the bar would remain
gold. Carlo would have plenty of time
to sell it to La Paglia. Then let the
miser discover, a few minutes after Car-
lo’s departure, that his bar of gold was
common iron. He could not prosecute.
It was illegal at the moment to own gold.
A law. Carlo reflected, which he would
bribe the government to change later.

Carlo cursed a little as the car rolled
along and he sat with his arm stiff from
the weight of the bar. He cursed Vi-
choni.

The murdered scientist had never
cared for money. The State had sub-
sidized his laboratory and filled his
needs. Personally he had never had
more than a few thousand lire in the
bank. That was what made this annoy-

AST— 8

ing swindle of La Paglia necessary.
Otherwise Carlo could have got the
money he needed by just forging a check
again Vichoni’s account.

“Impractical fpol!” snarled Carlo.

Maddening, that a man like himself,
who would soon be worth untold mil-
lions in gold, should first be forced to
undertake a cheap swindle like a com-
mon confidence man !

He kept glancing at his watch. “A
little faster,” he said to Farnese.

At twenty-six minutes after leaving
the laboratory. Carlo got out before La
Paglia’s house. He went to the door,
with his left arm stiff with the weight
of the eighteen-iqch metal bar hidden
up his sleeve.

La Paglia himself, a shriveled, elderly
man who looked like a spider in a dress-
ing gown, opened the door. One minute
and six seconds later Carlo entered La
Paglia’s private study with him.

“You have that which you telephoned
me about?” La Paglia said to Carlo.

Carlo nodded. He drew the bar from
his sleeve. He was almost afraid to look
at it for an instant. What if it had not
lost its protons and he had no gold bar
to sell !

But the bar was of gleaming yellow
metal. The eyes of the miser. La Pa-
glia, gleamed in answer as they rested
on it.

CARLO thumped it on the miser’s
desk and flexed the fingers of his left
hand. His left arm was sore and stiff
clear to the shoulder. But that, of
course, was only because the bar was
very heavy now. It had been a feat to
carry it that way. But Carlo had not
wanted to wrap it and carry it as a
bundle because of the few seconds neces-
sary for the unwrapping. He had' no
seconds to spare. He must leave here
before the bar ceased to gleam with a
golden shine.

“Here it is,” he said. “Over three
hundred thousand lires’ worth by actual

114

ASTOUNDING STORIES

weight. Give me two hundred thou-
sand, quickly, and it is yours.”

La Paglia stared at him with mad-
dening deliberation while the precious
seconds ticked away.

‘‘Why are you in such a hurry?” he
demanded.

‘‘I must get back to the laboratory be-
fore I am missed,” Carlo explained rap-
idly.

La Paglia took more maddening sec-
onds to stare first at the dull yellow bar
and then at Carlo. ‘‘Why don’t you
smuggle this out of the country, to Hol-
land or Switzerland, and get full value
for it instead of selling it to me for
less?”

“You’ll soon find out,” Carlo said to
himself. And aloud: “Because I must
have, money immediately. Come — do

you want to buy it and make a fifty-
per-cent profit, or shall I offer it to some
one else?”

“I’ll buy it,” grated La Paglia. “I’ll
buy it. But first I must examine it.”

His voice died away as he bent over
the bar. He weighed it. He tested it.
He passed his finger tips over it as if
his miserly touch alone could tell him
it was true gold. He took a knife from
his desk and notched deep into the bar
in several places.

Meanwhile the sweat was starting out
on Carlo’s forehead in fine drops. The
minutes were flying. With each minute
more of the artificially added protons
were radiating from the bar.

He got up. “I must get back to Vi-
choni! Immediately! Take my bar or
leave it. But if you take it, give me my
money at once and let me go.”

La Paglia grunted. In his shrewd
eyes was the conviction that the bar had
been stolen. At the same time, the bar
was indubitably solid gold and worth
more than three hundred thousand lire.

“All right,” he said.

He walked to an antiquated safe and
opened it. To Carlo it seemed that
each move took an hour. And it seemed

to him that the yellow gleam of the bar
was dulling even while he watched it.

La Paglia handed Carlo twenty ten-
thousand-lira notes.

And Carlo fairly ran from the study
and the house, leaving the miser to croon
over the dully glittering yellow bar as
if it had been something alive, while the
protons which made it gold emanated in
an invisible stream into the atmosphere
around.

“To the warehouse where our equip-
ment lies,” said Carlo to Famese as ht
stepped into the car.

“You were successful?” said Farnese.

“Of course! Why not? Who
wouldn’t buy three lires’ worth of pure
gold for two?” He glanced at his
watch. “Hurry away. In less than
four minutes La Paglia will discover
that he has paid two hundred thousand
lire for a bar of ordinary iron.”

THE ORDER has been left at the
warehouse for the equipment to be de-
livered, and the bill had been paid. Far-
nese and Carlo were back in the labora-
tory.

Carlo was walking back and forth
across the big room. At one point his
strides took him over the spot in the
basement where rested the vat of sul-
phuric acid into which he had thrown
his victim.

But Carlo was oblivious of that.
There was only one thing he was aware
of now.

That was pain.

Pain was beading his face with sweat
and wringing an irrepressible moan from
his twisted lips every few seconds — pain
from his left arm.

But even more agonizing than the
pain was the mental torture he w’as un-
dergoing at the possible significance of
that pain.

“I told you!” Farnese was saying in
a shrill, frightened voice. “I told you !
You should not have let that large bar
of 93 come in contact with your bare

THE STOLEN ELEMENT

115

flesh. I told you! Now it has burned
you, or otherwise hurt you. Heaven
knows what it has done to you !”

“Shut your lips!” Carlo groaned, in
whose mind was mounting a terror even
greater than that glinting in Farnese’s
ratlike eyes.

He had been serene in his belief that
half an hour’s contact with the bar would
not harm him. There had been a chance,
of course, that the radioactive emana-
tions of the new element would injure
him a little. But he had thought it
could be only a little. And there had
been no way to shield his flesh from
them. You can’t carry a gold brick to
a prospective victim in a heavy lead case,
for example. Instant suspicion would
have been aroused.

Such had been his reflections when
he left the laboratory with the bar of
the stolen element heavy against the flesh

of his arm. Now

Now that arm was as stiff as wood
and gave him such agony as he had never
believed bearable.

“It may be burned to the bone !” chat-
tered Farnese. “It may even be par-
tially consumed in the radiating streams

of escaping protons ”

“Will you stop your mouth!” rasped
Carlo, gray of face.

He tried to flex the fingers of his
left hand and found that now he could
not. They were stiff, and presently his
hand itself began stiffening. Mean-
while, waves of agony seared from arm
to brain.

“Let me see your arm!”

“If you don’t let me alone,” grated

Carlo to Farnese, “I’ll— I’ll ”

He squeezed his left hand in his right
in an effort to ease his anguish.

This had all seemed so foolproof, in
planning. The murder of Vichoni — -the
possession of Vichoni’s laboratory for
his own work — the swindling of a ras-
cally old man who deserved whatever
he got — the purchase of the needed
equipment.

A simple chain! And he had carried
it through as easily as he had thought
he would. But in the least important,
least considered step of the journey —
the swindling of La Paglia — something
had happened. What had No. 93, the
element stolen from Vichoni along with
his laboratory, done to him?

“Let me see your arm !” bleated Far-
nese again. He came close and plucked
at Carlo’s left sleeve.

Carlo cursed, lashed out viciously,
cruelly, with his right arm and knocked
Farnese, staggering, a dozen feet away.

“Let me alone!”

It was a shriek. But before the last
word had left his lips. Carlo’s voice low-
ered a little.

The pain seemed to be decreasing a
bit.

He almost held his breath while he
stood, looking vacantly at Farnese, and
waited to see if it was true.

Yes; the pain was abating. He al-
most sobbed in his relief.

And then Farnese’s wild shout rang
in the laboratory. The smaller man was
pointing at Carlo’s right hand, and his
eyes were starting from his head.

“Your hand ” Farnese choked.

“Your hand ”•

Carlo looked rigidly straight ahead of
him. For a moment he dared not gaze
at his hand for fear of what he should
see.

The pain had gone almost entirely;
yes. But his hand and arm were beyond
feeling, for some reason. It was not
that his flesh did not hurt any more — it
was that it could not hurt. And Carlo
dared not look at his hand to see why.

“The protons escaping from the bar,
of 93 ” babbled Farnese. “The pro-

tons escaping — ^they must have entered
the atoms of your flesh — look at your
hand !”

And then, at last. Carlo looked.

His hand, solid and heavy and inflex-
ible, glittered with a dull yellow sheen.

116

ASTOUNDING STORIES

THE FLESH was preserved in
shape, each vein rising ufhere it should
and each small hair showing on the back
of his hand. But the skin did not look
like skin ; it looked like a metal sheath —
a dull yellow metal.

“It’s the Midas curse!’’ screamed
Farnese. “The Midas curse! You
dreamed of gold ! You killed for gold!
And the element you stole from the man
you killed is turning you into the stuff !’’

“Fool!” panted Carlo. “Fool! Are
you a superstitious peasant, or a man of
science? The protons escaping from
the bar I held penetrated my flesh and
made of its elements a metallic yellow
one. Yes. But that is no supernatural
curse. And it will not last. Already
the pain is gone. Soon the surplus pro-
tons will radiate out of my flesh as they
radiated into it, and my arm will be
normal again. Stop shouting ! Do you
want the whole of Naples to rush in
here?”

But Farnese was not to be quieted.
All he could see was that gilded hand,
attached to a gilded wrist, like a bit of
sculpture hideous in its perfection. And
all he could think of was that the mur-
dered Vichoni, through his stolen ele-
ment, had wreaked a terrible and per-
sonal vengeance on his killer from be-
yond the grave.

“The curse oL Midas !” he screamed.
And then he turned and ran raving to-
ward the door.

Carlo bounded after him and caught
him. Farnese must not be allowed to
go shouting and raving into the streets.
There would be an instant investigation
and this was a place in which murder
had recently been done.

But while Carlo was thinking this, in
the back of his mind was a realization
of something more horrible than any
present danger from a murder investiga-
tion.

When he had run after Farnese, he
had run heavily, with his left side droop-
ing far down as though in his left hand

he carried a heavy weight. The weight
was that of his own left arm.

“Let me go!” screamed Farnese.
“The touch of you is a curse! The
Midas touch! The Midas touch!”

He was quite mad, at least tem-
porarily. Carlo saw that in the glazed
sheen of his staring eyes and the white
flecks on his lips. But for an instant
he tried to reason with him.

“You can’t go out like this. And my
touch is not a curse. My hand — the
trouble will pass. There is no reason to
think that the protons, driving into the
elements of my flesh from the bar of
93, will stay there any more than they
stay in other elements when driven in
by the Vichoni-bombardment process.”

“The trouble will pass? You say it
will pass?” Farijese’s crazed laughter
rang out, and he clutched Carlo’s left
sleeve and wrenched it up his forearm.
“It will pass ? Look at your arm !

Carlo jerked his coat sleeve down.
But not before he had seen that the skin
of his arm glittered that dull yellow up
as far as he could look.

“I’m going out of here!” shrieked
Farnese, struggling like a madman,
1 m

Carlo’s eyes went bleak and hard.
“Will you control yourself?” he rasped.

Farnese’s only answer was more mad
screams and more struggles.

“Then — take it!” said Carlo, almost
quietly, drawing a knife.

With the words he struck. And now
he was a double murderer.

The big laboratory was very quiet.
Carlo stood staring dazedly down at
Farnese. As he stood, he braced his
legs far apart and leaned to the right so
that the growing weight of his left arm
would not overbalance him. He might
actually have fallen to the floor had he
not so braced himself.

He took off coat and shirt and under-
shirt and looked at his arm.

From shoulder socket to finger tips
it gleamed dull yellow. And now it

THE STOLEN ELEMENT

117

weighed, from the feel of it, as touch
as all the rest of his body put together.

“It’s impossible,’’ he whispered. “Sci-
entifically impossible. There are many
elements in flesh. It cannot be that pro-
tons from 93 could so change the nuclei
of all those elements that the one uni-
form element should result. Impos-
sible!’’

“Impossible,” came a whispering echo
from the end wall of the great, still
laboratory. It was almost as if it had
come from the lips of the man lying
dead with a knife through his heart.

Carlo’s legs were trembling under the
burden of his arm. He fell to his knees.
His left hand hit the floor with a pon-
derous, thudding sound.

“Impossible!” he whispered, glaring
at his arm. “Anyway, it must soon pass.
Thirteen and a half minutes ”

On the end wall of the laboratory
there was a big electric clock. The sec-
ond hand whirled swiftly around its
face, followed more sedately by the min-
ute hand.

“Thirteen and a half minutes and my
arm must be flesh again,” whispered
Carlo.

He sagged to the floor, unable to keep
upright even on his knees under the
weight of his arm.

“Thirteen and a half minutes ”

babbled Carlo. “Thirteen and a half
min ”

But it had been twenty minutes since
the impossible change had noticeably be-
gun. And eight more minutes passed
while he lay panting and stared at the
clock.

“Thirteen and a half ”

A quarter of an hour went by, and
Carlo started crawling toward the body
of Farnese.

His muscles ridged convulsively as he
strained at the gigantic task of moving
his arm over the floor. His arm scraped
against the smooth cement with a harsh,
brittle sound. At the shoulder, where
the yellow metallic gleam paled impar-
ceptibly into the tint of skin, the flesh
showed taut and drawn.

He lay still, gasping under the weight
of his own arm.

Protons fired into changing elements
by Vichoni’s process radiated away
swiftly and left those elements in their
original forms. But protons emanating
from the new element, 93, and finding
their way to near-by atoms, did not radi-
ate away. They stayed. Carlo had his
gold, hanging from his shoulder socket.

With his eyes fixed on the releasing
knife in Farnese’s heart, Carlo resumed
his laborious crawl toward the dead man.

An announcement of importance comparable to the announcement
of THE SKYLARK OF VALERON will be made in next month’s
issue of Astounding Stories.

The Legion of Space

The conclusion of the epic
of the musketeers of space

by Jack Williamson

UP TO NOW:

In the thirtieth century, John Star —
then John Ulnar — receiving his com-
mission in the legion of space, joins the
guard of Aladoree Anthar, a lovely,
mysterious girl, keeper of AKKA — the
secret weapon of hutnanity, so terrific
that the specifications for building it are
intrusted to only one person in the sys-
tem.

She is at once kidnaped by the "Pur-
ples," a faction led by Adam Ulnar,
wealthy, traitorous commander of the
legion, who plots to crush the demo-
cratic Green Hall Council, make his
weak nephew, Eric Ulnar, emperor of
the system. Eric carries her across space
to the planet of his weird, monstrous,
but highly scientific allies, the Medusae.

John Star, to rescue her and recover
AKKA, follows with three loyal legion-
aries, Jay Kalam, Hal Samdu, and Giles
Habibula, crossing space in the "Purple
Dream," space cruiser of Adam Ulnar,
which they capture. The ship falls
wrecked into an ocean, and they leave
it, with Adam Ulnar on board. He has
learned that the Purples have been
tricked by the Medusae, who plan to
conquer the system for themselves,
migrate to it with their monstrous
hordes, vnping out humanity with a
deadly red gas.

Entering the colossal city of the
Medusae, the four rescue AMoree and
escape with her, through the flood
drains, into a great river. They reach
the shore. John Star kills a flying mon-
ster that attacks the girl.

Aladoree tries to set up the weapon,
finds that her materials include no iron,
that element not occurring on the planet.
Helpless, without tiuit necessary bit of
metal, they watch the black fleet sail off
into space, carrying unearthly hordes to
the doomed system.

The planet’s bitter, weekdong night is
upon them; they are unarmed, without
shelter, in the edge of a savage jungle
of thorns.

XXVI.

A ll for the want of a mortal
nail!” commented Giles Habi-
• bula, in a voice that might have
softened the cast-iron heart of a statue
of the same material.

“Ah, me ! That the lack of a blessed
nail could mean so much I”

He was huddled on the black sand, a
heap of dejection, carelessly holding a
smoking piece of meat on a stick, above
the sheltered driftwood fire.

“Poor old Giles Habibula! Better —
ah, life knows, far better — that he
should have died as a blessed babe ! Bet-
ter that the law should have taken its
cruel, pitiless course, that time on Ve-
nus!

“A fearful reward it is, in life’s name,
mortal fearful, for twenty years of
loyal service in the legion. Accused for
a precious pirate. Imprisoned and
starved and tortured! Ah, yes, driven
out of his own native system, to this
hideous world of horror !

“Poisoned by the very mortal air,

THE LEGION OF SPACE

119

It struck with a blinding burst of white Illustrated by Elliot Bold
dame. Heroic death!

doomed to blessed insanity and death by
green leprosy. Hunted by a million
mortal monsters. Forced to scuttle like
a rat through the blessed black city.
Driven like a rat to drown in the
sewers. Now face to face with a fear-
ful death, in the cold of the night. And
the one bottle of wine on the whole con-
tinent smashed before he’d had a taste
of it!

“Mortal me! It’s more than a man
can endure. Too mortal much, in life’s
name, for a poor old soldier of the le-
gion, sick and lame and feeble, with his
wine spilled under his very eyes!

“And now, for the want of a nail, the
blessed system is lost. Ah, me, for the
want of one precious bit of iron, all
humanity doomed to die before the in-
vasion of the mortal Medusae ! Ah, life
knows, it’s a mortal time! A mortal

bitter time ! Giles Habibula ’’

There was a crackling sound from the
driftwood fire, a whiff of acrid smoke.
He stirred himself abruptly, rose with a
final doleful wail :

“Ah, me! Misfortunes never come
alone. Now the mortal meat is burned !’’
And he went back to the bright-
winged thing that John Star had killed,

120

ASTOUNDING STORIES

to cut another steak from its furry body.

By the glittering, sapphire-and-ruby
wings, that lay forlornly on the black
sand, the others were standing in a
dispirited little group, shivering in the
increasing cold wind that blew out of
the deepening crimson twilight.

From the river bar they were staring,
hopelessly, at the Cyclopean walls and
weird, gigantic towers of the black metal
city, looming strangely ominous against
the darkening scarlet sky, above the
sinister dark barrier of the thorn jungle.

Overwhelming sense of failure, of
despair, of inevitable doom overtaking
them and all humanity, rested op-
pressively upon them, held them in dead
silence.

The keen blue eyes that peered above
Hal Samdu’s red beard caught a black
space flier — one of the Medusae’s un-
earthly, colossal ships — moving toward
the somber walls above the river. He
pointed, silently followed it.

“Is that ’’ John Star began, with

a sudden, painful leap of his heart.
“Beneath it — could it be ”

“It is,” Jay Kalam said gravely, “the
Purple Dream r

“Your ship?” cried Aladoree.

“Our ship. We left it wrecked, un-
der the yellow sea, with Adam Ulnar
on board.”

“Adam Ulnar !” Her voice was
edged with scorn. “Then he has gone
back to his allies.”

She looked at John Star oddly.

“It looks,” he admitted, “as if he had.
He could communicate with the Me-
dusae by radio. He must have called
them, got them to raise the ship and
help repair it.”

They watched the Purple Dream, fly-
ing under the vast black vanes of the
Medusae’s flier, its tiny torpedo shape
no more than a silver mote. Blue flame
burst from its rockets as it approached
the black city, and it slanted down
athwart the red sky, the other huge ma-
chine hanging near above it, on thun-

dering wings of eerie green fire. It
slowed, came at last to rest on a tower
of tlie black wall, in view of them. The
black ship landed close beside it.

For a few minutes, they all stared at
it, silent with the intensity of their de-
sires.

“We must get that ship!” Jay Kalam
whispered, at last.

“It would take us to the system,”
breathed Aladoree, voiceless. “We could
find iron. We could set up AKKA.
Save at least a remnant of humanity."

“We could try,” agreed Jay Kalam.
“They would follow us from here, of
course, with their weapons that throw
flaming suns ! • And the Belt of Peril is
still above ; we’d have to pass its zone of
disintegration again. And all their fleet
will be guarding our system, now. And
the hordes of them, in the fortress on

the Moon But,” he whispered,

“we could try.”

“But how?” rasped Hal Samdu
hoarsely.

“That’s the first question. It’s miles
to where the ship is, across the jungle.
On top of a sheer wall, a mile high.
Nothing could reach it but a flying
thing. And that black flier is beside it,
apparently to g^ard it. How?”

His eyes fell, then, on John Star, who
was staring fixedly at the wings of the
creature he had killed, glittering beside
them on the black sand.

“What is it, John?” he demanded, his
low voice strangely tense. “You
look ”

“Nothing could reach the top of that
wall except a flying thing,” John Star
said slowly, absently. “But I think —
I think I see a way.”

“You mean — to fly?”

Jay Kalam searched his intent, hag-
gard face, looked at the long, splendid
wings at which he stared, sheets of sap-
phire, veined with red.

“Yes. I used to fly,” said John Star.
“At the legion academy — ^gliding. One

THE LEGION OF SPACE

121

year I was gliding champion of the
academy.”

"Build a glider, you mean ?”

“It could be done — I believe it could.
Those wings are long enough. Strong.
The thing’s body was larger than mine.
And the wind is blowing across the
river, toward the jungle and the walls.
There would be rising currents.”

"Here are the wings. But the rest
would ”

“Not much would be needed. The
wings are already ribbed. Just posts to
brace them together. We could cut
canes in the jungle. Twist fiber cords
to lash it together.”

“There’s not much time.”

“No. It will soon be too cold to
work. Not many hours. But we’ve no
shelter, no weapons. We couldn’t live
through the night, if we waited. It
seems the only thing.”

“Yes!” He spoke suddenly, accept-
ing the idea. “Yes, we shall try. But
it’s a fearful undertaking, John. You
realize that. An uncertain craft — if we
can build one that will fly at all. The
danger you will be discovered. The
difficulty of getting on board, getting
the better of Adam Ulnar, with only a
thorn dagger. Even if you get safely to
the controls, there’s the black flier on
guard.”

“I know,” John Star said soberly.
“But it seems the only thing.”

SO THEY set out, in the face of
every conceivable obstacle and danger,
to do the impossible, first searching for
tools, for sharp-edged shells, for rocks
that would serve as knives and ham-
mers, for the keen-bladed, iron-hard
jungle thorns.

Measuring the bright wings, John
Star drew on all his old knowledge for
a design into which they would fit,
sketched it with charcoal on a slab of
bark.

Then, in increasing cold and darkness,
with the glistening wings, with struts

and braces shaped from jungle cane,
with strong, twisted fibers and members
shaped from the tough thorn wood, he
labored hour after hour to construct the
glider, while the four others roved the
beach and the jungle fringe for materi-
als.

They did not rest until it was finished,
a simple thing, frail, slight. Merely the
four bright wings, braced together, with
fiber thongs to fasten them to John
Star’s body. They bound it on him,
and he ran with it a few times down
the sand bar, into the wind, the others
hauling him with a rope of twisted bark,
to try its balance.

He thrust two thorn daggers into his
belt, then fastened a long black spear to
the frame beside him. He ran down
the sand, the others running with the
rope. He rose, cast it off.

His strange craft came up unstead-
ily, swerved and dived toward the sand.
He righted it with a desperate twist of
his body — its only control was by shift-
ing his weight — and soared up in the
strong current that rose over the jungle.

He looked down, once, at the tiny
group on the bar of black sand — three
men and a girl whose hopes had sent
him up. Tiny, ragged, weary figures,
alone in the bitter wind. He waved a
hand, they waved in return.

Heart aching queerly, he soared on.
He could not fail them, for they would
surely die unless he took the ship. Jay
and Hal and Giles — and Aladoree! He
could not let them die, even if their
safety had not meant the safety of all
humanity. Over the menacing roof of
the black jungle of thorns, now. Sheer
disaster if he fell, here! When he
found time to look again, the four were
lost in the shadow of the jungle.

His former knowledge of gliding
came back swiftly. He found his old
pleasure returning, in the sweeping,
soaring flight, found a lifting exhilara-
tion even in the difficulty of managing
his tricky craft, even in the grave peril

122

ASTOUNDING STORIES

of a plunging descent into the jungle of
thorns.

Keeping within the rising currents
above the jungle’s edge, he worked
steadily upriver, toward the walls of the
city — vague, now, in the increasing red
gloom, the Purple Dream no longer vis-
ible. At first he had been doubtful of
the frail machine, but he flew with in-
creasing confidence, presently fearing
only that the wind should change, or
the Medusae see him. Then unexpected
danger came.

Up from the black forest came glid-
ing another creature, like the one that
had supplied his wings. It circled him,
arched above him, dived at him again
and again, sting and talons ready, until
he knew that it meant to attack.

He shouted at it, waved his arms. At
first it seemed alarmed ; but it returned,
dived again, whistling past nearer than
ever.

He unbound the black spear, then, set
it before him. The thing dived a last
time, slender sting curved, yellow, fear-
ful talons stiffened. It came straight
at him. He met it squarely, spear
aimed at its single black eye.

The point went home. But the rush-
ing body struck his frail craft, with a
force that made its braces crack. Flung
off balance, John Star slipped toward
the jungle, after the body of his at-
tacker.

Equilibrium recovered, just clear of
the thorns, he rose again. But the
fiber-bound frame had been weakened,
warped, by the impact. It creaked
alarmingly as he soared; its flight was
more startling and unstable than ever.

But at last he reached the stronger,
gusty current that rose above the black
walls. Up he was carried, up, fearing
that each moment would see his bright
wings folding, his body spinning down
toward the yellow river.

So he came at last level with the
tower, made out the Purple Dream, tiny
spindle of silver, lying on the huge

black platform, in the shadow of the
colossal black flier that guarded her. The
unearthly ebon city stretched away be-
yond, an eldritch army of black giants,
crouching ominously in lowering crim-
son gloom.

Over the platform he swept, and
down.

The gust carried him too fast, almost
he was swept over into the city; the
glider creaked alarmingly.

But his feet touched black metal in
the shadow of the Purple Dream. He
slipped free of the binding thongs, dis-
carded his wings, ran silently toward
the air lock, thorn dagger in hand, alert
for the unknown obstacles ahead.

XXVII.

THE AIR LOCK, to John Star’s re-
lief, was open, accommodation ladder
touching the metal platform. He was
up the steps in an instant, across the
lowered valve, and on the long, narrow
deck inside, beneath the curve of the
hull, where he came face to face with
Adam Ulnar.

At their parting, months before, on
the bottom of the yellow sea, Adam Ul-
nar had seemed a beaten man, shattered,
crushed with the discovery that he and
his cause had been betrayed by the
Medusae. A vast change had come in
him since.

Always tall, impressive of figure, he
was once more erect, confident, deter-
mined. Freshly shaven, ruddy, neatly
groomed in legion uniform, he met John
Star with a hearty smile of surprised
welcome on his handsome face.

“Why — why, John! You surprised
me. Though I had hoped ’’

He started forward, extending a well-
kept hand in greeting. And John Star
leaped to meet him, menacing his throat
with drawn thorn dagger.

“Keep still!’’ he whispered harshly.
“Not a cry!’’

He was acutely conscious of the dif-

THE LEGION OF SPACE

123

ference between them. A strange fig-
ure, he presented, he knew; grimy, ex-
posure-blackened, haggard from fatigue,
half naked ; appearing, with shaggy head
and many months’ growth of beard,
more beast than man. An uncouth ani-
mal, facing a polished, confident, power-
ful man.

“Adam Ulnar,” he breathed again
fiercely. “I’m going to kill you. Twice
false, you deserve it. Have you any-
thing to say?”

He waited, trembling, fearful that he
could not strike this serene, smiling man,
whose personality roused instinctive ad-
miration, quick pride in their kinship —
for all his black treason.

“John !” protested the other, his voice
urgent, yet smooth, persuasive. “You
misunderstand. I’m really delighted
that you came. My unfortunate nephew
told me, a little while ago, that you had
been here, that you had been drowned
in the sewers. Knowing you and your
companions, I could not believe you had
perished. I was still hoping to be of
some assistance to you.”

“Assistance!” echoed John Star
harshly, still threatening his throat
with the dagger. “Assistance! When
you are responsible for the whole fright-
ful situation?”

“I wanted all the more, my boy, to
help you, because I realize my responsi-
bility for what has happened. It’s true
that you and I have differing political
views. But I never had any desire to
betray humanity to the doom the
Medusae plan. I have no other pur-
pose, now, than to help undo what I’ve
been the cause of.”

“How’s that?” demanded John Star,
with a sick fear that this smooth, com-
pelling voice would win his confidence
and betray it again.

Adam Ulnar made a gesture to in-
clude the ship about them.

“I’ve already done something. You
must admit that. I’ve had the cruiser
raised, repaired, in the hope that it

might carry AKKA back to the system
in time to save it.”

“But the Medusae raised it.”

“Of course ! They tricked me ; it was
only fair for me to trick them, in re-
turn — if I could. I got back in com-
munication with them, agreed to join
them. I agreed to aid them, with my
military skill, in the conquest of the
system. And I asked them to raise
the Purple Dream, fit it up for my main-
tenance.

“They raised the cruiser, and repaired
her, well enough. But they don’t trust
me so far as we Purples trusted them.
The black flier outside has been stand-
ing guard over me, day and night, with
its weapons that hurl those flaming
suns.”

“You’ve seen Eric?” demanded John
Star suspiciously. “He’s with you?”

“No, John. He isn’t with me. He
told me how the Medusae had made him
try to force the girl to reveal her se-
cret. Ab<5ut your arrival, and escape.
And how he had run to the Medusae, to
warn them, because he was afraid of
them.”

“The cowardly beast!” muttered John
Star. “Where is he?”

Adam Ulnar nodded, a shadow of
pain on his handsome face.

“That’s what he was, John — a coward.
Even though his name was Ulnar. A
coward! He made the first, foolish al-
liance with the Medusae, because he
was a coward, because he was afraid
to carry out my own plans for the
revolution.

“I knew, then, John, that I’d made a
mistake. I knew it was you who should
have been emperor, not Eric. Even then,
it might not have been too late — if you
had been willing.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“No, you weren’t. And perhaps you
were right, John. I’m losing my faith
in aristrocracy. Our family is old,
John; our blood is the best in the sys-
tem. Yet Eric was a craven fool. And

124

ASTOUNDING STORIES

the three men with you — common sol-
diers of the legion — ^have shown fine
metal.

“It hasn’t been easy for me to
change, John. But I have. From now
on, I shall support the Green Hall.”

“Yes?” John Star’s voice was hard
with skepticism. “But answer my ques-
tion ! Where is Eric ? Both of you

“Eric will never betray mankind
again, John.” The voice was edged
with pain. “When I found how he had
sent the Medusae after you, when you
were escaping — I killed him.” He
winced. “My own blood as he was — I
killed him. I broke his neck with my
own hands.”

“You— killed— Eric?”

John Star whispered the words very
slowly, his haggard eyes anxiously scan-
ning Adam Ulnar’s face, now stern with
its pain.

“Yes, John. And killed part of my-
self with him, for I loved him. Loved
him! You’re the heir, now, to the Pur-
ple Hall, John.”

“Wait!” snapped John Star savagely,
pressing the dagger closer, while he
searched the handsome, pain-shadowed
face.

“Very well, John.”

With a curious little smile, Adam
Ulnar folded his arms, backed to the
wall, stckxl watching him.

“You don’t trust me, John. You
couldn’t, after all that has happened.
Go ahead, then, and drive your weapon
home, if you feel that you must. I
shan’t defend myself. And eis I die I
shall be proud that your name is Ul-
nar.”

JOHN STAR came toward him,
weapon lifted. He gazed into the fine,
clear eyes. They did not waver. They
seemed sincere. He could not kill this
man! Though doubt still lurked in his
heart, he lowered the blade.

“I’m glad you aren’t striking, John,”

Adam Ulnar said, smiling again. “Be-
cause I think you will need me. Even
since we have the cruiser repaired,
there are terrific obstacles ahead of us,

yet-

“The black flier, here, is guarding us.
And even if we’re able to slip away
from it, they will send a fleet after us.
And the Belt of Peril' is above — it is
weaker, I’ve learned, above the poles
of the planet, but even there a fearful
barrier.

“Even if some succession of miracles
let us get to the system, humanity is
already crushed, disorganized. We
would receive no aid; we might be at-
tacked, even, by the miserable wretches
insane from the red gas. And the great
fleet that went ahead is guarding the
system; the hordes of the Medusae are
safe in their great fortified outpost on
the Moon, from which their immense
guns are shelling all the planets with
the red gas.

“If we lose much time, John, we’ll be
too late. We’ll be the sole survivors,
with no chance of surviving very long,
ourselves. Already humanity is going
mad, dying of the green leprosy, on
every planet. It can’t be long, until — the
end ”

“I’ll trust you, Adam,” said John
Star, striving to , put down his mis-
trust that remained. Added, swiftly;
“We must pick up Aladoree and the
others. They’re down by the river,
without shelter or any real weapons.
They’d soon die, in this night!”

“To move, now, with the black flier
on guard,” protested Adam Ulnar,
“would be — suicide ! • We must wait
some opportunity ”

“We can’t wait!” He was harsh
with desperation. “We’ve the proton
gun. If we took them by surprise ”

Adam Ulnar shook his head. “They
dismantled the proton-blast needle,
John. Removed it. The cruiser is un-
armed. They took even the racks of
hand weapons. Your thorn is the only

THE LEGION OF SPACE

125

weapon we have. Against the suns they
throw !”

John Star set his jaw. “There’s one
way !’’ he muttered grimly. “A way to
move so fast they’d have no time to
strike at us, even with them.”

“How’s that?”

“We can take off with the geodynes"
“The geodynes!" It was a startled
cry. “They can’t be used to take off
with, John. You know that. We’d fuse
the hull with friction heat! Or crash
into the ground like a meteor !”

“We’ll use the geodynes" said John
Star harshly. "I’m a pilot. Can you
run the generators?”

Adam Ulnar looked at him for a mo-
ment, strangely; then he smiled, took
John Star’s hand, squeezed it with a
quick strong pressure.

“Very good, John! I can operate the
generators. We shall take off with the
geodynes. I wish you had been my
nephew.”

John Star felt a responding emotion,
checked by his little doubt that refused
to die. So many had trusted this man ;
his treason had been so appalling !

They parted. In the little bridge
room, John Star inspected the array of
familiar instruments, tested them
swiftly, one by one. All the iron, he
saw, had been replaced by some other
metal. But everything seemed to func-
tion as it should. He peered through a
tele-periscope.

The Medusae’s guarding flier lay be- .
side them, one vast strange vane extend-
ing overhead. Against the now darkly
scarlet sky it loomed portentously gi-
gantic, like some monstrous hybrid in-
sect swollen to Cyclopean dimensions.

The low, clear music of the geodyne
generators became audible, rose to a
keening whine. Adam Ulner spoke
through the telephone :

“Generators ready, sir, at full power.”
With a brief, grim smile at the “sir,”
checked, again, by mistrust, John Star
was swiftly estimating the position of

the bar on the river, planning the thing
he meant to do. The danger of it, he
realized coldly, was terrific; the slight-
est error meant instant, flaming anni-
hilation.

Fingers on the keys, he peered back
into the tele-periscope.

He remembered the air lock, then,
touched the button that closed it. That
might, he knew, betray them. But if
he left it open the terrific air resistance
would fuse the valve, or wrench it
away.

Tensely he waited, one second, two,
and three. A long, slender black cone
projected abruptly from the huge black
moon of the flier’s body, swung toward
them. A weapon !

Four! Five! He heard the clang of
the closing valve and touched a key.

The tower platform, the black flier,
vanished instantaneously. Though, since
its terrific force was applied equally to
the entire ship, there had been no per-
ceptible shock; the geodynes had flung
them away with a rapidity incalculable
— and perilous!

Scarlet darkness spun about them. A
black shadow flung at them.

Driven with lightning speed to meet
this desperate emergency, John Star’s
fingers leaped across the keys. Years
of training now found their test. He
had often imagined, in the days at the
academy, that this thing might be done,
half longing for a chance to try it, half
fearful that opportunity would some
day come.

After the merest instant of accelera-
tion, he reversed the geodynes for an-
other split second, to check an incon-
ceivable velocity.

And the Purple Dream, a moment be-
fore upon the black wall, was plunging
down toward the river, still at a fright-
ful speed, her hull incandescent from
friction with the air. Desperately, he
flung down the rocket firing keys, to
check the momentum before they struck.

A desperate game, this playing with

126

ASTOUNDING STORIES

the curvature of space itself, in the very
atmosphere of a planet ! Human daring
and human skill, pitted against titanic
forces. Savage elation filled him. He
was winning — if the rockets stopped
them in time.

Down on a dark sand bar hurtled the
incandescent ship. Down to the bank
of a freezing river. Rockets thundering
at full power to the last moment, she
struck the sand heavily, plowed into it,
steam mantling her red-hot hull.

By the narrowest margin — safe !

Safe, at any rate, until the Medusae
had time to strike.

Hot valves flung open; four persons
came hastily aboard. Half-naked, hag-
gard persons, dead-weary, numb with
cold. The air lock clanged behind them ;
the Purple Dream thundered away
again, blue blasts scorching the sand.

Geodynes cut in at once, she plowed
with inconceivable velocity upward
through the planet’s sullenly crimson at-
mosphere. John Star felt a moment of
wild triumph, before he recalled the un-
earthly terrors of the Belt of Peril,
ahead ; recalled the myriad dangers of
frozen, boundless space, beyond — six
light-years of it; remembered the fleets
of the Medusae, guarding the system,
ahead, and the hordes of them waiting
in the fortress on the Moon.

Behind, he saw colossal mechanisms
stirring along the walls and towers of
the weird metropolis. A full score of
black fliers took off, to follow, on thun-
dering bursts of eerie green flame. Om-
inously vast, proved more than a match
for the Purple Dream in speed, armed
with those weapons that flung fearful
crashing suns of annihilating opal
flame!

XXVIII.

THE RED HAZE ahead faded, grew
dim. The Purple Dream burst upward
into the freedom of space, where her
incandescent hull could cool. The planet

drew away beneath, a huge ball of dull,
baleful orange-red.

Up from it rose the swarm of giant
black machines, in ever-swifter pursuit,
a menacing swarm. The recklessly sud-
den start of the cruiser had left them
too far behind to use their fearful weap-
ons at once. But swiftly, with their
greater speed, they were closing the gap.

Ahead was the Belt of Peril.

Double line of vast sapphire stars
across the sky. Narrow diamond rays
woven between them, a barrier of light,
a frail shell of ineffable prismatic splen-
dor, inclosing the whole planet. Terri-
ble zone of radiation that disintegrated
any matter entering it, destroying the
tissue of human nerves with unutterable,
consuming agony.

Remembering Adam Ulnar’s informa-
tion that it was weaker at the poles of
the planet, John Star set his course to
strike it above the north pole, drive the
cruiser forward at the utmost power of
the geodynes. He was sick at thought
of plunging into the pain and the horror
of the barrier, sick with dread of what
Aladoree must suffer within it. But
there was no choice.

The Purple Dream drove into the wall
of diamond rays, John Star still alone on
the bridge.

Fiery mist swirled suddenly away
from his body, from every object in the
room. Mist of tiny, dancing motes,
that glittered with every color of the
.spectrum. White, searing pain probed
his body, screamed in his ears, flamed
blindingly before his eyes.

Atom by atom, the disrupting vibra-
tion was destroying the ship and their
bodies. Slowly consumed nerves raged
with agony.

Limp with suffering, John Star
fought his tortured body, fought to keep
awareness, to keep the hurtling cruiser
within the narrow passage of wave in-
terference that Adam Ulnar had told
him of.

His body, luminous, half transparent.

THE LEGION OF SPACE

127

exhaling the shining vapor of disintegra-
tion, was immersed in sheer agony. He
was weak, trembling, almost too faint
to move the keys. Red flame burned
away his very brain.

And part of him was startled, inex-
pressibly, by a sudden laugh, strange
and harsh and wild. A mad laugh ! The
laugh of a lunatic! It shook him with
the sickness of pure horror, for he
knew that it was himself who had
laughed.

He had just thought of a terrific
joke !

Like the luckless members of the
first expedition, the sane part of him
knew, he was going mad. Months of
exposure to the red gas that permeated
the atmosphere of the Medusae’s planet
had finished its fearful work. Gone
mad! Doomed to die a hopeless luna-
tic, consumed by un.peakable green
leprosy !

He was laughing. Laughing at a mon-
strous joke. The joke was the death of
the system, by madness and green lep-
rosy. And the death of those who had
tried to save it, by the same hideous de-
composition of body and mind. A fear-
ful joke ! A stupendous joke !

Millions, billions, laughing foolishly,
inanely, as their flesh dried to green
scales and flaked away. And those who
had thought to save them — dying first!
What a joke ! Men laughing, while they
endured red pain. Men laughing, while
the flesh came away from their bones.
Men laughing, until their bodies fell
apart, and they laughed at death !

What a colossal joke !

His hands had slipped away from the
controls ; he was doubled up with
laughter.

Would the Medusae be laughing, as
they rained the bombs of red gas on the
planets? Would they see the joke —
men laughing as they fell to green frag-
ments ? Or could they laugh, with their
monstrous, gelatinous bodies?

He must ask Adam Ulnar. Adam Ul-

nar could communicate with the Me-
dusae. He could find out. He could
tell them the joke — the colossal joke,
humanity laughing as it died. He could
tell them the joke, and they could laugh,
too.

He tried to stand up, but he was
laughing so that he could not rise.

He rubbed his hands together. They
felt dry, papery. Already the scales
were forming on his skin. His flesh
would flake away until his bones were
bare. He was a joke, himself ! What a
magnificent joke! A man laughing,
when he found that his body was crum-
bling away !

He lay on the floor and laughed.

Then, dimly, he became aware of
something he must do. Red flame was
lapping at his brain ; his body was sick
with suffering. And there were others.
Others? Yes, Jay and Hal and Giles.
And Aladoree! And the system. He
could not fail them ! But what was the
thing he must do?

It was to drive the cruiser on, he re-
membered dimly, though the Belt of
Peril. Then this intolerable pain would
go away from him. Away from the
others. From Aladoree! She was so
beautiful, so frail, so weary. He must
not let her suffer this.

He fought the laughter. He tried
to forget the colossal joke. He strug-
gled against the agony that consumed
his nerves. Doggedly, he dragged his
limp body back to the controls.

On through the lacing diamond rays
of the Belt of Peril, he drove the Pur-
ple Dream, watching the weirdly semi-
transparent instruments through a haze
of fiery particles, handling the controls
with weirdly luminous hands, shaken,
again and again, with laughter at that
stupendous joke.

He knew, finally, that they were be-
yond the vibration barrier. The red
pain faded from his body ; the unearthly
luminescence departed from the instru-

128

ASTOUNDING STORIES

ments; the glittering mist dissipated.
But still he sobbed with laughter.

JAY KALAM came presently into
the bridge, haggard and pain-drawn, but
calmly efficient. Already, in the hour
that they were driving out to the Belt of
Peril, he had found a moment to shave
and don a new uniform. He was neat
again, trim, tall, darkly and gravely
handsome.

“Well done, John!” he said quietly.
“I’ll take the bridge a while. I’ve just
been talking to Adam Ulnar about out-
running the fleet behind us. He says
that ”

John Star had struggled desperately
to listen, to keep silent and understand
what Jay Kalam said. But the joke — it
was so terribly funny. He burst into
mad laughter again, a wild tempest of
laughter that sprawled him on the floor.

He must try to tell Jay Kalam about
the joke. Jay Kalam could appreciate
it. Because, very soon, he would be
laughing, too, as his body scaled away
with the green leprosy. But, for the
racking laughter, he could not speak.

"John!” he heard Jay Kalam cry,
aghast. “What’s the matter? Are you
—hurt?”

And Jay Kalam helped him to his
feet, held him until he could stop
laughing, shake the tears out of his
eyes.

“A joke!” he gasped. “An immense
joke! Men laughing, as their bodies
fall apart!”

“John! John!” The grave voice
bore inexpressible horror. “John, what
is it?”

He struggled to forget the joke.
There was something else he had to tell
Jay Kalam, something he must tell him.
He stopped another fit of sobbing
laughter.

“Jay,” he whispered, “I’m going mad.
It’s the red gas. I can feel my skin
getting rough. With the flakes. You

must take the controls. And have Hal
lock me in the brig ”

“Why, John ”

“Please lock me up. I might harm
Aladoree. And fly on to save the sys-
tem.”

The laughter came back; he clung to
Jay Kalam, sobbed out:

“I must tell you the joke. So hugely
funny. Millions of men, laughing,
while they die. Little children, even,
laughing, until the flesh drops off their
bones.”

It overcame him. He fell shaking on
the floor.

The next he knew, beyond laughter
and delirium, he was strapped to a
berth in a cabin, and Giles Habibula
was bathing his body with a pale,
luminously blue solution, evidently the
same which Adam Ulnar’s close-
mouthed physician had used upon his
strangely wounded shoulder, I6ng ago
in the Purple Hall.

“Giles !” he whispered, his voice oddly
weak.

“Ah, lad!” he wheezed, smiling. “You
know me, at last! It’s time you did.
You’ll laugh no more — promise old
Giles?”

“Laugh ? What have I to laugh at ?”

Vaguely he remembered some joke,
but what it was, he could not say.

“Nothing, lad!” gasped Giles, re-
lieved. “Not a mortal thing! And

you’ll be on your blessed feet again, by
the time we reach the system.”

“The system ? Oh, I remember ! Does
Jay think we can escape the black
fleet?”

“Ah, lad, we left them long ago. We
flew close to the red sun. They could
not follow — its gravitational field

stopped their propelling mechanisms.

“And mortal near caught us! Ah,
what a fight we had to drive clear of
it!”

“So I was laughing? I remember.
The madness of the red gas! Am I
sane again, Giles?”

AST— 8

THE LEGION OF SPACE

129

“Ah, y^, you seem to be. Just now.
Adam Ulnar had this solution. It
neutralizes the gas. If one has not
been exposed too mortal long! The
green flakes went from your body days

ago. But we were afraid "

“Did any of the others ”

The wheezing voice fell. “Yes, lad.
The lass ”

“Aladoree?" Pain throbbed in John
Star’s hoarse cry.

“Ah, yes! All of the rest of us
escaped; we all used this solution. But
the lass caught the madness when you
did, in the Belt of Peril.”

“How is she, Giles?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head.
“The green flakes are all gone from her
skin. But still she is not herself. She
lies, as you lay, in a dead trance we
can’t wake her from. She was mortal
weak and weary, you know, when it
took her.

“Ah, lad, it’s bad. Mortal bad! If
she doesn’t wake she cannot build the
deadly weapon. And all our trouble
has been in vain ! I like the lass. Life
knows I’d hate to see her die!”

“I — I ” whispered John Star,

through his agony of apprehension and
despair, “I — like her, too, Giles!”

And he sobbed.

JOHN STAR was able to return to
the bridge by the time they entered the
outskirts of the system, passing Nep-
tune and Pluto. All the familiar plan-
ets, they saw in the tele-periscope, were
red. Even Earth was a dull spark of
crimson, ominous, baleful.

“Red!” breathed Jay Kalam, in a
tone edged with horror. “The air of
every planet is full of the red gas. Soon
it will be too late. Too late to save
humanity from madness and death.”
“And still,” John Star whispered
bitterly, “Aladoree is no better. Still
sleeping in that dead trance.”

“We’ll land on Earth, anyhow. Find

AST— 9

a piece of iron. And wait. Perhaps
she will recover.”

“Perhaps! Though her pulse, Giles

says ” He broke off, muttered

fiercely: “But she can’t die. Jay! She
can’t!”

They were slipping past the Moon,
five days later, toward Earth.

Aladoree still lay unconscious, heart
and breath frighteningly slow. Her
frail body, weakened by utter ex-
haustion, by the strain and anxiety of
her long captivity, by the months of
exposure to the slow poison of the red
gas, was fighting desperately for life
itself. The others watched her, bathed
her lax body in the neutralizing solution,
forced a tittle food down her throat.
They could do no more.

The Moon was a red world of men-
ace. John Star scanned it through a
tele-periscope. Its grimly rugged
mountains were shrouded in deadly
crimson gas ; the human cities were
lifeless ruins. On a bare, cruel plateau
of lava, he saw the Medusae’s fortress.

An unearthly citadel! A replica of
the weird metropolis on their own planet
of horror. Titanic walls and Cyclopean
towers of metal, portentously black.
Bristling with the fantastic, colossal
confusion of black mechanisms— ships
and weapons 1

“The hordes of them are waiting
there,” whispered Jay Kalam. “Making
the red gas. Bombarding the planets
with shells of it. And their fleet — on
guard. If they discover us ”

His voice fell. He had seen the same
thing that had shocked John Star with
horror. A flaring burst of eerie green
flame, above a black tower. An om-
inous black flier rising, coming toward
the Earth !

“Perhaps they have, already! But
we have time to land ahead of them,
look for a piece of iron.”

“But Aladoree is still unconscious,”
John Star muttered. “Unless she

130

ASTOUNDING STORIES

wakes, to build AKKA, we have no
weapon. Unless she wakes ”

On they plunged, toward the weirdly
red Earth, fearfully watching the black
flier crossing after them from the crim-
son Moon.

XXIX.

INTO THE atmosphere of Earth,
strangely and ominously crimsoned, the
Purple Dream dropped, over western
North America, to land at last by the
Green Hall, on the brown mesa beneath
the mile-high, rugged Sandias.

John Star had volunteered to leave
the cruiser, to look for iron. There had
been none aboard, when the ship came
back into their possession. Space craft
are nonmagnetic, since magnetic fields
interfere with the operation of the
geodynes; and the Medusae, refitting
the vessel, had removed the few bits of
iron about the instruments, precious to
them.

“Carry this,” Jay Kalam told him,
and gave him his old thorn dagger.
“And be cautious, if you meet men.
They will be mad, dangerous. And
hurry. We must get the iron and slip
away, somewhere, before the black ship
comes. Hide, and wait for Aladoree to
recover.”

Dropping outside the air lock, John
Star paused to gaze in horror at what
remained of the system’s once proud
and splendid capital.

The sky was clouded with a haze of
fatal scarlet, through which the mid-
afternoon sun burned with a bloody and
sinister light. Bare mesa and cragged
mountains were strange and grim and
incredibly desolate under the ominous
illumination.

The Green Hall had been destroyed
by a great shell from the Moon.

In the edge of the grounds, that once
had been a luxuriantly verdant garden,
a ragged crater yawned, rimmed with
torn, raw masses of rock. Beyond the
pit the great building tumbled down in

colossal ruin, a mountain of shattered
emerald glass, from which protruded
skeletal arms of twisted metal.

A moment he waited, horror-struck.
Then, remembering the urgent need of
haste, he plunged forward through
masses of neglected weeds, among the
bare skeletons of trees killed by the ex-
plosion, across lawns piled with rocks
flung from the crater and shattered
fragments of green glass.

Curious, he soon had cause to reflect,
how difficult it is to find even a nail
when it must be had. He found as-
sorted metal objects, a bronze lamp
stand, a little figurine of cast lead, the
charred, twisted aluminum frame of a
wrecked air sled. Even an iron girder
flung from the building, many times too
heavy to carry.

He hurried on, desperately search-
ing the devastated grounds for any
fragment of iron small enough to move,
with an occasional, anxious glance at
the lurid scarlet-hued sky. If the
Medusae had seen them, if the black
ship was coming to attack them

He stumbled around a great heap of
broken green glass and came face to
face with green horror.

It had been a man; a gigantic man;
it must have survived through the days
of terror by sheer brute strength.
Nearly seven feet tall, its body was half
naked, half clad in the ragged, filthy
fragments of a legion uniform — ^the
uniform of the Green Hall guards. Its
skin was a mass of bleeding sores,
scabbed and crusted horribly with hard
green flakes. Red-rimmed eyes, green-
clouded, hideous, stared from the green
horror of its face, half sightless. Its
lips had been eaten away. With naked
fangs it was gnawing avidly at a fresh
red bone that John Star knew, shud-
der ingly, from its shape, to be a human
humerus.

Sight of this man-beast, crouching,
gnawing, snarling, sickened him with
infinite pitying horror. It meant more

THE LEGION OF SPACE

131

than one man’s fate. It epitomized the
doom of all humanity, under the insidi-
ous attack of the Medusae — a doom that
would fearfully soon be complete.

Involuntarily he had cried out at sight
of it. Then, realizing the danger of it,
he tried to slip away. But it had al-
ready become aware of him. It made a
curious, half-vocal, questioning sound —
its vocal organs were evidently too far
eaten away to admit of articulation. The
red-rimmed, clouded eyes peered swiftly
about, saw him. It came toward him
with a lumbering, shambling gait.

“Stand back!” he shouted sternly,
tension of panic in his voice.

The effect of his sharp command was
curious. The shambling figure straight-
ened suddenly to military erectness,
came to attention, stiffly raised an un-
speakable, green-crusted paw in salute.
But it was no more than a mechanical
reaction left over from its old life. It
slumped back, into the same stooping
posture, lumbered on toward him.

"Attention!” he shouted again.
“Halt !”

A moment it paused, then came on
faster. Voiceless, protesting sounds
came from its lipless mouth. He stood,
faint with horror, trying to understand
its cries, until it uttered an abrupt,
eager, animal squeal, and broke into a
run.

He knew, then, that it was stalking
him for food.

Swiftly he looked behind him, for
a path of escape, realized with a wave
of sick apprehension that it had trapped
him. Mountains of broken green glass
hemmed him in. He must face it.

True, he had the black thorn. But he
was not so strong, he knew, as he had
been before his long sickness. And this
green-scaled thing was well over twice
his weight. The green death, appar-
ently, had not greatly wasted away its
strength.

He hoped, as they came to grips, that
the tricks of combat he had learned in

the legion academy would make up his
disadvantages. But, as one green paw
seized his dagger wrist in a clever, cruel
hold, he realized that this thing had
been another legionary, that its crazed
brain had not lost its animal cunning in
battle.

The dagger dropped from his para-
lyzed hand. Rough green arms locked
him in a pitiless embrace. One of his
own old tricks. A knee in his back,
the other locked over his thighs; his
shoulders twisted, twisted, until his back
should break.

He struggled vainly in the merciless
hold, blind with pain and panic. The
hard green scales were harsh against
his body, foul odor of decomposition
sickened him. For a moment, as his
efforts failed, he was faint, hopeless.

Naked fangs slashed at his shoulder ;
the thing made an eager whine.

Something of his old cool composure
came back, then; through the mist of
agony he imagined himself back at the
academy, listening to an old instructor’s
directions: “Twist your body, so, drive
your elbow into the plexus, so, slip your
arm here, so, then lock your leg and
turn.”

He did it, as the dry old voice whis-
pered in his memory, hardly aware
where he was, knowing only that the
torturing pain would cease when he
had done it, and he would be free to
search for a nail.

Snap!

He rose slowly, beside the quivering,
hideous body, awareness returning as
agony ebbed away.

AMONG THE shattered green
ruins, John Star staggered on again,
scanning the battered earth. He must

hurry! If the black flier came It

was a child’s toy that caught his eye.
A rusty, broken little engine, that could
no longer move its tiny burden — but
might yet save the system.

He tore the shaft out of it, assured

132

ASTOUNDING STORIES

himself that it was iron, hastened back
toward the cruiser.

Clambering over a heap of broken
green glass, he looked up, and saw the
machine from the fortress on the Moon.
It was slanting down, across the crim-
son-dyed sky, already very near. A
gigantic thing, a sphere, with vast vanes
and enigmatic mechanisms projecting.
It was monstrous, like some fantastic
beast parodied in black metal.

He broke into a dogged run, stag-
gered into view of the Purple Dream.
Tiny, torpedo-shape of silver, a pygmy
in the shadow of the huge mechanism
plunging down above the Sandias. It
was still beyond the yawning crater, a
quarter mile from him.

Hopelessly, he staggered on. The
cruiser was unarmed; the terrific weap-
ons on the Medusae’s flier could an-
nihilate it in an instant.

Wondering dimly, as he ran, he saw
a little group appear on the lowered
valve of the air lock, hurry down the
accommodation ladder. Jay Kalam and
Hal Samdu and Giles H^ibula, he
recognized, carrying the inert figure of
Aladoree.

The valve closed above them; Adam
Ulnar had not appeared.

They ran away from the cruiser; evi-
dently it was about to take off, with
Adam Ulnar at the controls. But why ?
Still running grimly on, John Star re-
membered his old doubt. Had his kins-
man turned again? Had he put the
others off, to go back to the Medusae?
John Star could not believe that. Adam
Ulnar had seemed sincere. But

Then the Purple Dream moved.

It plunged forward in the fastest
take-off he had ever witnessed. It
leaped away so swiftly that his eyes
lost it. They caught it again, flashing
toward the black flier, its hull already
incandescent.

Even as he realized that it was driven,
not by the comparatively feeble rockets,
but by the terrific power of the

geodynes, it struck the central sphere of
the black flier, with a startling, blinding
burst of white flame.

The machine from the Moon, twisted,
flaming, fell with a curious deliberation
out of the red sky, struck the barren
slopes of the Sandias, rolled down
them, looking oddly like a black mon-
ster struggling in slow agony of death.

John Star’s old, haunting doubt was
gone.

“You are the last Ulnar,” Jay Kalam
greeted him, when he came up to the
lonely little group on the edge of the
mesa. “Adam Ulnar said he was try-
ing to pay a debt to the system. And
he told me to tell you, John, that he
hoped you would be happy in the Pur-
ple Hall.”

John Star dropped on his knees by
the limp, white-faced girl on the
ground, whispered anxiously:
“Aladoree! How is she?”

“Ah, me, lad,” dolefully wheezed
Giles Habibula, fixing a pillow under
her head, “she seems no better. No
better! The same trance she’s been in
for mortal weeks. She may never

wake! Ah, the poor lass ”

He flung a tear out of his fishy eye.
They tried to make her comfortable,
under a little shelter made from the
dead branches of a shattered tree. They
found rude clubs, to defend her, if the
green beasts should find them. Hal
Samdu and Giles Habibula went to
search for food and water, returned,
at sunset, empty-handed.

“Mortal me!” wailed Giles Habibula.
“Here we are lost in a desert, without
food or drink for ourselves or the lass!
Ah, me! And fearful mad green
creatures are roving all about us, hunt-
ing for mortal human food!”

The Moon canie up in the scarlet
dusk, a huge, fearful, blood-red globe,
above the rugged ramparts of the dark
Sandias. And they saw, against its
sinister face, a little cluster of tiny
black specks, creeping about, growing.

THE LEGION OF SPACE

133

expanding. A little swarm of black
insects that became steadily and om-
inously larger,

“A fleet coming down from the
Moon,” whispered Jay Kalam. “Since

the one ship did not return A

whole fleet of the gigantic black ma-
chines, coming to make sure we are de-
stroyed. They’ll be here in an hour.”

XXX.

“SHE MUST wake,” whispered
John Star. “Or she never will !”

“I’m afraid so,” agreed Jay Kalam.
“Probably the fleet will destroy the very
mesa, with those suns of flame. To be
sure we trouble them no more. But
there’s no way ”

"She must wake!” John Star mut-
tered again.

With a sort of fierce tenderness, he
lifted her from where she lay. Her
body was limp, relaxed. Her eyes were
closed, her pale, full lips parted a little,
her fine skin very white. Her pulse
was beating almost imperceptibly; she
was breathing very slowly. Deep, deep,
she was still sunk in the coma in which
she had lain so long.

So quiet, so helpless, so beautiful!
He held her fiercely in his arms and
stared in mute, savage defiance at the
menacing Moon, red and pocked with
black. She must not die I She was his !
Forever — ^his! So warm, so frail, so

lovely ! He would not let her die.

No! No, she must wake, and use
her knowledge to build the weapon and
destroy these menadng horrors. He
must wake her, so she could be his for-
ever.

Unconscious, he had been whispering
it to her. And he spoke louder now,
in a desperate appeal. He called to her
in a mad attempt to break through her
coma, to make her realize the desperate
need that she should wake.

“Aladoree! Aladoree! You must
wake up. You must. Yon must! The

Medusae are coming, Aladoree, to kill
us with the opal suns. You must wake
up, Aladoree, and build your weapon.
You must wake up, Aladoree, to save
humanity! You mustn’t die, Aladoree!
You mustn’t! Because I love you!”

He always believed that his appeal
had reached through to her sleeping
mind. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps,
as a medical scientist has suggested, it
was the irritating stimulation of the red
gas in the atmosphere that roused her,
after the change from the pure air on
board the Purple Dream. It does not
greatly matter.

She sneezed a little, and whispered
sleepily: “Yes, John, I love you, too.”

He almost dropped her in his eager
start at her response, and she came
wide awake, staring about in amazed
alarm at her strange surroundings.

“Where are we, John?” she gasped.
“Not — not back on that planet ”

She was gazing in horror at the scar-
let Moon in the red-bathed sky.

“No, we’re on the Earth. Can you
finish the weapon, quickly, before the
Medusae come? We brought the parts
you made by the river.”

She stood up, looked around her,
clinging uncertainly to John Star’s arm,
still dazed with astonishment.

“Can this be Earth, John, with the
red sky? And that the Moon?”

“It is. And the Medusae are com-
ing down.”

“Ah, the lass is awake !” wheezed
Giles Habibula joyfully.

And Jay Kalam hurried forward
with the odd little device that Aladoree
had built back on the Medusae’s planet,
that had been useless for want of a lit-
tle ircrn.

“Can you finish it?” he asked, still
calmly grave. “Quickly? Before they
come ?”

“Yes, Jay,” she said, equally calm,
seeming to recover from her first be-
wilderment. “If we can find a bit of
iron ”

134

ASTOUNDING STORIES

John Star produced the broken shaft
of the toy engine. She took it, exam-
ined it swiftly.

“Yes. This will do.”

In the fatal light of the blood-red
rising Moon the four stood silent about
Aladoree and her weapon, tense with
hope and dread.

They were alone on the mesa, a bar-
ren waste bathed in terrible light. Be-
hind them was the murdered Green
Hall, a tumbled black mass looming
monstrously against the red-washed sky.
Before them the mesa sloped up to the
rugged Sandias, beneath the baleful disk
of the scarlet Moon, dark with the
growing swarm of the Medusae’s fleet.

Dread silence hung over them, the
awful silence of a world treacherously
slain. Only once , was it broken — ^by a
fearful, hideously half-vocal sound of
agony and terror from the ruin.

“What was that?” the girl whispered,
shuddering.

It was one mad thing, stalked by an-
other human beast, John Star knew.
But he did not tell them.

Aladoree was busy with the weapon —
a tiny thing. It looked very simple,
very crude, very frail. The parts of it
were fastened to a narrow piece of
wood, which was mounted on a rough
tripod, so that it could be turned,
aimed.

John Star examined it, amazed again
at its simplicity, incredulous that such a
thing could ever overcome the terrible,
ancient science of the Medusae.

Two little metal plates, perforated, so
that one could sight through their cen-
ters. A wire helix, between them,
connecting them. And the little cylin-
der of iron. One of the plates, and the
little iron rod, set to slide in grooves,
so that they could be adjusted with
small screws. A rough key, to close a
circuit through the rear plate. That
was all.

Aladoree was making some adjust-
ment to the screws. Then she bent.

sighted through the tiny holes in the
plates, toward the red Moon, with the
black specks of the fliers against it. She
touched the key and straightened to
watch, with a curious, lofty serenity on
her quiet, pale face. *

John Star had vaguely expected some
spectacular display about the machine,
perhaps some dazzling ray. But there
was nothing. Not even a spark when
the key was closed. So far as he had
seen, nothing had happened about the
little instrument.

FOR A strange moment John Star
fancied he was still insane. It was
sheer impossibility that this odd little
mechanism — a thing so small and so
simple a child might have made it —
could defeat the fearful invading
science.

“Won’t it ” he whispered anx-

iously.

“Wait!” said Aladoree.

Her voice was perfectly calm, with-
out trace of weakness or weariness. Like
her face, it carried something strange
to him. A serenity, a disinterested pas-
sionless authority. It was absolutely
confident. Without fear, without hate,
without elation. It was like — like the
voice of a goddess I

Involuntarily, he stepped a little back
from her in awe.

They waited, watching the little black
flecks swarming over the face of the
sullen Moon. Five seconds, perhaps,
they waited.

And the black fleet vanished.

There was no explosion, neither
flame nor smoke, no visible wreckage.
The fleet 4 simply vanished. They all
stirred a little, drew breaths of awed
relief. Aladoree moved to touch the
screws again, the key.

“Wait!” she said once more, voice
still terribly — divinely — serene. “In

twenty seconds — the Moon ”

They gazed on the baleful globe.
Earth’s attendant for aeons, now the

THE LEGION OF SPACE

135

dwelling of unearthly hordes, waiting
for the conquest of the planets. Half
conscious, under his breath, John Star
counted the seconds, watching the red
Moon of doom.

“ — eighteen — ^nineteen — twenty !’*

Nothing had happened. A breathless,
heartbreaking instant of doubt. Then
the red-lighted sky went abruptly black.

The Moon was gone. Like the fleet,
it had vanished, without sound or flash
or visible remains. It simply had

ceased to exist.

“The Medusae,” Jay Kalam whis-
pered, as if to assure himself of the un-
believable, “the Medusae are gone.” A
long moment of silence, and he whis-
pered once more: “Gone! They will
never dare — ^again!”

“I saw — nothing!” cried John Star
breathlessly. “How ”

“They were annihilated,” said Ala-
doree, strangely serene. “Even the mat-
ter that composed them no longer exists
in our universe. They were flung out
of all we know as space and time.”

“But how ”

“That is my secret. I can never tell
— save to the chosen person who is to
keep it after me.”

“Mortal me!" wheezed Giles Habi-
bula. “Ah, the blessed system is safe
at last. Ah, me, a mortal desperate un-
dertaking it’s been to save it. You must
be precious careful not to fall into hos-
tile hands again, lass. Old Giles will
never be able to go through all this,
again, life knows!

“Ah, me! And here we’re left in
the middle of the desert, in the dark
and ”

His voice had snapped the tension
that held them.

“John ” breathed Aladoree.

No longer was it the voice of a
goddess. Its awful serenity was gone.
It was all human, now, weak and
shaken, appealing. John Ulnar found
her in the darkness, made her sit down.

and she sobbed against his shoulder,
with happy sobs of relief.

“Ah, lass,” groaned Giles Habibula,
“good cause you have to weep! We all
may perish yet, for want of a mortal
bite of food!”

NEARLY A year later the Green
Defender, newest cruiser of the legion
of space, flashed down to the Purple
Hall, on Phobos. Though one red-gas
shell had fallen on that tiny moon of
Mars, during the Medusae’s bombard-
ment, the great building had not been
injured. The neutralizing solution had
cured those affected by it ; it had dis-
sipated, been combined into harmless
salts, until the dark sky of the little
world was free from any stain of red.

The cruiser dropped on the landing
stage that crowned the central purple
tower. The new commander of the le-
gion came gravely down the accommo-
dation ladder, and John Ulnar went
eagerly to meet him. Greetings over,
they paused, looking down at the lux-
uriantly green convexity of the little
planet, with grim memories of the last
time they had been together here, when
they took the Purple Dream.

“Not much trace left of the inva-
sion,” remarked Jay Kalam.

“No, commander,” replied John Ul-
nar, with a little smile at the title. “Not
one case of the madness left uncured,
in all the system, I understand. And the
red gone from the skies. It’s already
history.”

“A splendid estate, John.” With ad-
miration, Jay Kalam’s glance roved the
richly green, curving landscape. “The
finest, I think, in the system.”

John Ulnar’s face clouded.

“A responsibility I had to assume.”
His voice was almost bitter. “But I
wish I were back in the legion. Jay.
With Hal and Giles. I wish I were
back in the guard of Aladoree.”

Jay Kalam smiled. “You’re — fond
of her, John?”

136

ASTOUNDING STORIES

He nodded, simply. “I was — ^am. I
hoped — until that night, when she used
AKKA ! I realized then what a fool I
was. She’s a goddess. Jay! With the
secret. She has a power — a responsi-
bility. I saw that night that she had no
time for — for love.”

Jay Kalam was still gravely smiling.
‘‘Did it ever occur to you, John, that
she’s just a girl? Even if it is interest-
ing to destroy a planet, she can’t be
doing it all the time. She’s apt to get
lonesome.”

‘‘Of course,” John Ulnar admitted
wearily, ‘‘she must have other interests.
But she was — simply a goddess I I
couldn’t ask her. Anyhow, it could
never be me !”

‘‘Why do you think that, John?”

“For one thing, my name! Ulnar.
She hates it!”

“That needn’t worry you, John. The
Green Hall, recognizing your distin-
guished service, has officially changed
your name to John Star.”

“Eh?” he gasped.

Then Aladoree came through the air
lock, Hal Samdu and Giles Habibula
behind her. Her face sedate, gray eyes
cool and grave, the clear sunlight work-
ing miracles of red and brown and gold
in her hair, she looked at John Star in
demure inquiry.

“Since the Purple Hall is the strong-

est fortress in the system,” Jay Kalam
explained hastily, “the Green Hall re-
quests you to assume the responsibility
of guarding Aladoree Anthar.”

“If you are willing, John Ulnar,”
added the girl, eyes twinkling.

His throat was dry. He searched in
a golden mist for words, whispered
them with an effort.

“I’m willing ! But my name, it seems,
is John Star.”

Still grave, but for her eyes, she said :
“I shall call you John Ulnar.”

“But, you said ”

“I’ve changed my mind. I trust one

Ulnar. More than that, I ”

She was suddenly too busy to finish
the sentence.

“Ah, me!” observed Giles Habibula,
approvingly watching the two. “It is
evident we’re welcome, with the lass.
Mortal evident! Especially the lass!
Ah, and it looks like a good-enough
place for a poor old soldier of the le-
gion to pass his remaining years in
peace. If kitchen and cellar bear
proper proportion to the rest of the
mortal building !

“Ah, Hal, if you can forget your pre-
cious pride in all those medals and dec-
orations that Jay has showered on you
since the Green Hall made him com-
mander of the legion, let’s look about
for a mortal bite to eat.”

THE END.

The greatest collation of factual data on
aaperscience in existence, Don*t miss any
installments^ or the story is incomplete

PART SIX

Book Two

ACCORDING to appearances,
fJL this earth is a central body,
A A within a revolving, starry globe.
But am I going to Judge by ap[>ear-
ances ? Everything of the opposing doc-
trine is Judgment by other appearances.
Everybody who argues against Judging
by appearances bases his argument upon
other appearances. Monistically, it can
be shown that everybody who argues
against anything bases his argument
upon some degree or aspect of what-

ever he opposes. Everybody who is at-
tacking something is sailing on a wind-
mill, while denouncing merry-go-
rounds.

“You can’t Judge by appearances,’’
say the astronomers. “Sun and stars
seem to go around this earth, but they
are like a field that seems to go past a
train, whereas it is the train that is
passing the field.” Judging by this ap-
pearance, they say that we cannot Judge
by appearances.

Our Judgments must depend upon
evidence, the scientists tell us.

138

ASTOUNDING STORIES

Let somebody smell, hear, taste, see,
and feel something that is unknown to
me, and then tell me about it. Like
everybody else, I listen politely, if he’s
not too long about it, and then instinc-
tively consult my preconceptions, before
deciding wh_ether all this is -evidence.
An opinion is a matter of evidence, but
evidence is a matter of opinion.

We can depend upon intuition, says
Bergson.

I could give some woebegone accounts
of what has befallen me by depending
upon intuitions, whether they are called
“hunches,” or “transcendental con-
sciousness but similar experiences
have befallen everybody else. There
would have been what I call good sport
if Bergson had appeared upon the floor
of the stock exchange and preached his
doctrine in October, 1929.

We have only faith to guide us, say
the theologians.

Which faith?

It is my acceptance that what we call
evidence and whatever we think we
mean by intuition and faith are the
phenomena of eras, and that the best
of minds, or minds best in rapport with
the dominant motif of an era, have in-
tuition and faith and belief that depend
upon what is called evidence, relatively
to pagan gods, then to the god of the
Christians, and then to godlessness —
and then to whatever is coming next.

We shall have data for thinking that
our existence, as a whole, is an organ-
ism. First we shall argue that it is
a thinkable-sized formation, whether
organic or not. If now, affairs upon
this earth be fluttering upon the edge
of a new era, and I give expression to
coming thoughts of that era, thousands
of other minds are changing, and all of
us will take on new thoughts concord-
antly, and see, as important evidence,
piffle of the past.

Even in orthodox speculations there
are more or less satisfactory grounds
for thinking that ours is an existence.

perhaps one of countless other exist-
ences, that is an egglike formation,
shelled away from the rest of the cos-
mos. Many astronomers have noted
that the Milky Way is a broad band in
the sky, with the look of a streak
around a globular object. For conven-
tional reasons for thinking that the
“solar system” is central in “a mighty
cluster of stars,” see Dolmage, “Astron-
omy,” p. 327. Dolmage even speculates
upon a limiting demarcation which is
akin to the notion of a shell, shutting
off this existence from everything else.

BACK in the pessimistic times of Sir
Isaac Newton was formulated the ex-
planation of existence in general that
is our opposition. It was the melan-
choly doctrine of universal fall. It was
in agreement with the theology of the
time — fallen angels, the fall of man-
kind; so falling planets, falling moons,
everything falling. The germ of this
despair was the supposed fall of the
moon, not to, but around, this earth.
But if the moon is falling away from
observers upon one part of this earth’s
surface, it is rising in the sky, rela-
tively, to other observers.

If something is quite as truly rising
as it is falling, only minds that belong
away back in times when everything
was supposed to be falling can be satis-
fied with this yarn of the rising moon
that is falling. Sir Isaac Newton looked
at the falling moon, and explmned all
things in terms of attraction. It would
be just as logical to look at the rising
moon, and explain all things in terms
of repulsion. It would be more widely
logical to cancel falls with rises and
explain that there is nothing.

I think of this earth as central, and
as almost stationary, and with the stars
in a shell, revolving around. By so
thinking, I have the concept of an ob-
ject, and the visualization of an ex-
istence as a whole. But the trouble with
this idea is that it is reasonable. Not

LO!

139

absolutely can it be said that human
minds reason according to reasonable-
ness. There is the love of the paradox
to consider. We are in agreement with
observations, but peasants, or clodhop-
pers, think as we think. We offer no
paradox to make one feel superior to
somebody who hops from clod to clod.

What is the test? Of course, if there
are no standards, all tests must be fakes.
But if we have an appearance of rea-
sonableness, and if the other side says
that it is reasonable, how choose?

We read over and over that predic-
tion is the test of science.

The astronomers can predict the
movements of some of the parts of what
they call the solar system.

But so far are they from a compre-
hensive grasp upon the system as a
whole, that if for a basis of their cal-
culations it be taken that this earth is
stationary, and that the sun and the
planets, and the stars in a shell, move
around this earth, the same motions of
heavenly bodies can be foretold. Take
for a base that the earth moves around
the sun, or take that the sun moves
around the earth — upon either base the
astronomers can predict an eclipse, and
enjoy renown and prestige, as if they
knew what they were telling about.
Either way there are inaccuracies.

Our opposition is ancient and at least
uppish.

Professor Todd, in his book, “Stars
and Telescopes,” says : “Astronomy

may be styled a very aristocrat among
the sciences.”

For similar descriptions, by implica-
tion, of themselves, by themselves, see
all other books by astronomers.

IF I CAN show that, relatively to
a viewpoint other than the astronomers’
own way of adoring themselves, the
supposed science of astronomy is only a
composition of yarns, evasions, myths,
errors, disagreements, boasts, supersti-
tions. guesses, and bamboozlements, I

am spreading the good cheer that it is
still very faulty aind intellectual and
still alive, and may be able to adjust and
keep on exciting its exponents with ad-
miration for themselves.

We shall see what mathematical as-
tronomy is said to start with. If we
can’t accept that it ever fairly started,
we’ll not delay much with any notion
that it could get anywhere.

The early mathematical astronomers,
in their calculations upon moving
bodies, could not treat of weights, be-
cause these inconstancies are relative;
nor of sizes, because sizes are relative
and variable. But they were able to say
that they had solved their problem of
how to begin, because nobody else in-
terfered and asked whether they had or
not. They gave up weight and size and
said that their treatment was of tnass.

If there were ultimate particles of
matter, one could think of mass as
meaning a certain number of those
things. When atoms were believed in,
as finals, an astronomer could pretend
that he knew what he meant by a quan-
tity of matter, or mass. Then, with
electrons, he could more or less seri-
ously keep on pretending. But now the
sub-electron is talked of. And, in turn,
what is that composed of? Perhaps
the pretensions can stretch, but there is
too much strain to the seriousness. If
nobody knows what constitutes a quan-
tity of matter, the astronomer has no
idea of what he means by mass. His
is a science of masses.

But it may be said that, even though
he has not the remotest idea of what
he is calculating about, the astronomers’
calculations work out, just the same.

There was the mass of Mars, once
upon a time, for instance ; or the
“known” unknowables constituting the
planet. Once upon a time, the mass of
Mars was said to be known. Why
shouldn’t it be said to be known? The
equations were said to work out, as they
should work out.

140

ASTOUNDING STORIES

In the year 1877, two satellites of the
planet Mars were discovered. But their
distances and their periods were not
what they should be, theoretically. So
then everything that had worked out so
satisfactorily, as it should work out,
turned out to have worked out as it
should not have worked out. A new
mass had to be assigned to the planet
Mars.

Now that works out as it should work
out.

But I think that it is cannier not to
have things so marvelously work out,
as they should work out, and to have
an eye for something that may come
along and show that they had worked
out as they should not have worked out.
For data upon these work-outs, see
Todd, “Astronomy,” p. 78.

It would seem that the mistake by the
astronomers is in thinking that, in a
relative existence, there could be more
than relative mass, if the idea of mass
could be considered as meaning any-
thing. But it is more of a dodge than
a mistake. It is just relativity that the
astronomers have tried to dodge, with a
pseudo-concept of a constant, or a final.
Instead of science, this is metaphysics.
It is the childish attempt to find the ab-
solutely dependable in a flux, or an in-
• tellectually not very far-advanced at-
tempt to find the absolute in the rela-
tive. The concept of mass is a borrow-
ing from the theologians, who are in no
position to lend anything.

The theologians could not confidently
treat of human characters, personali-
ties, dispositions, temperaments, or in-
tellects, all of which are shifts; so they
said that they ccmceived of finals, or un-
changeables, which they called “souls.”
If economists and psychologists and
sociologists should disregard all that is
of hopes and fears and wants and other
changes of human nature, and take
“souls” for their units, they would have
sciences as aristocratic and sterile as the
science of astronomy, which is con-

cerned with souls, under the name of
masses.

A final, or unchangeable, must be
thought of as a state of unrelatedness.
Anything that is reacting with some-
thing else must be thought of as being
in a state of change. So when an as-
tronomer formulates, or says he formu-
lates, the effects of one mass, or one
planet, as a mass, upon another, his
meaningless statement might as well be
that the subject of his equations is the
relations of unrelatednesses.

Starting with nothing thinkable to
think about, if constants, or finals, are
unknown in human experience, and are
unrepresentable in human thought, the
first and the simplest of the astron-
omers’ triumphs, as they tell it, is the
problem of the two masses.

This simplest of the problems of ce-
lestial mechanics is merely a fiction.
When Biela’s comet split, the two
tmsses did not revolve around a com-
mon center of gravity. Other comets
have broken into parts that did not so
revolve. They have been no more sub-
ject to other attractions than l^ve been
this earth and its moon.

The theorem is Sunday-school sci-
ence. It is a mathematician’s story of
what bodies in space ought to do. In
the textbooks it is said that the star
Sirius and a companion star exemplify
the theorem, but this is another yarn.
If this star has moved, it has not moved
as it was calculated to move. It ex-
emplifies nothing but the inaccuracies
of the textbooks. It is by means of
their inaccuracies that they have worked
up a reputation for exactness.

OFTEN in his book, an astronomer
will sketchily take up a subject and then
drop it, saying that it is too complex,
but that it can be mathematically demon-
strated. The reader, who is a good deal
of a dodger, himself, relieved at not
having to go into complexities, takes this

LO!

141

lazily and faithfully. It is bamboozle-
ment.

There are many of us, nowadays, who
have impressions of what mathemati-
cians can do to, or with, statistics. To
say that something can be mathemat-
ically demonstrated has no more mean-
ing than to say of something else that
it can be politically demonstrated. Dur-
ing any campaign, read newspapers on
both sides and see that anything can
be politically demonstrated. Just so it
can be mathematically shown that twice
two are four, and it can be mathe-
matically shown that two can never be-
come four. Let somebody have two of
arithmetic’s favorite fruit, or two ap-
ples, and undertake to add two more
to them. Although he will have no
trouble in doing this, it can be mathe-
matically shown to be impossible. Or
that, according to Zeno’s paradoxes,
nothing can be carried over intervening
space and added to something else. In-
stead of ending up skeptically about
mathematics, here am I upholding that
it can prove anything.

We are told in the textbooks, or the
tracts, as I regard these propagandist
writings of Sunday-school science, that
by parallax, or annual displacement of
stars, relatively to other stars, the mo-
tion of this earth around the sun has
been instrumentally determined. Mostly,
these displacements are about the ap-
parent size of a fifty-cent piece, held
up by some one in New York City, as
seen by somebody in Saratoga. This
is much refinement. We ask these
ethereal ones — where is their excuse if
they get an eclipse wrong by a millionth
of an inch, or a millionth of a second?

We look up this boast.

We find that the disagreements are
so great that some astronomers have
reported what is called negative paral-
lax, or supposed displacement of stars,
the wrong way, according to theory.
See Newcomb, “The Stars,’’ p. 152.
See the “English Mechanic,” 114-100,

112. We are out to show that astrono-
mers themselves do not believe paral-
lactic determinations, but believe those
that they want to believe. Newcomb
says that he does not believe these de-
tenninations that are against what he
wants to believe.

Spectroscopic determinations are de-
termined by whatever the spectroscop-
ists want to determine. If one thinks
not, let one look up the “determina-
tions” by astronomers who were for and
against Einstein. Grebe and Bachem,
at Bonn, found shifts of spectral lines
in Einstein’s favor. They were for Ein-
stein. St. John, at the Mount Wilson
Observatory, found the testimony of
the spectroscope not in Einstein’s favor.
He was against Einstein. The spectro-
scope is said to be against us. But if
we had a spectroscope of our own, it
would be for us.

In “The Earth and the Stars,” Ab-
bot says that the spectroscope “seems to
indicate” that variable stars, known as
the Cepheid Variables, are double stars.
But he says: “The distance between
the supposed pairs turns out to be im-
possibly small.” When a spectroscopic
determination is not what it should be,
it only “seems to indicate.”

The camera is another of the images
in astronomical idolatry. I note that
bamboozlements that have played out
everywhere else still hold good in as-
tronomy. Spirit photographs fall flat.
At the movies, if we see somebody
capering seemingly near an edge of a
roof, we do not think that he had been
photographed anywhere near an edge of
a roof. Nevertheless, even in such a re-
ligious matter as photography in astron-
omy, a camera tells what it should tell,
or the astronomers will not believe it.

If the astronomers would fight more
among themselves, more would come
out. How can I be a pacifist, just so
long as I am trying to educate myself?
Much comes out in war times. Con-
siderable came out in astronomical mat-

142

ASTOUNDING STORIES

ters during the Mars controversy.
Everything that was determined by
Lowell, with his spectroscope, and his
camera, and his telescope, as an indica-
tion of the existence of life upon the
planet Mars, was determined by Camp-
bell, with his spectroscope, and his cam-
era, and his telescope, to be not so. The
question is not what an instrument de-
termines. The question is — ^whose in-
strument? All the astronomers in the
world may be against our notions, but
most of their superiority is in their
more expensive ways of deceiving them-
selves.

Foucault’s experiment, or the sup-
posed demonstration with the pendulum,
is supposed to show that this earth ro-
tates daily. If a pendulum does — at
least for a while — swing somewhat
nearly in a constant line, though chang-
ing relatively to environment, and if we
think that neither religiously, nor acci-
dentally, has it received some helpful
little pushes, we accept that here there
may be indication of an annual, and
not daily, rotation of this earth. That
would account for the annual shift, and
not the daily shift, of the stars. I don’t
know that I accept this, but I have no
opposing prejudice.

When I write of this earth as “al-
most stationary,’’ as I have to regard
it, if I think of it as surrounded by a
starry shell that is not vastly far away,
I mean that relatively to the tremendous
velocities of conventionality. But this
alleged experiment has never been more
than part of an experiment. I quote
from one of the latest textbooks, “As-
tronomy,” by Professor John C. Dun-
can, published in 1926. We are told
that a pendulum, if undisturbed, swings
for “several hours,” in “very nearly”
the same plane. Further along we read
that, in the latitude of Paris, where
Foucault made his experiment, the time
for a complete demonstration is thirty-
two hours. Professor Duncan makes
no comment, but if is the reader’s own

fault if he reads in these statements that
the swing of a pendulum, through more
than part of an experiment, and in more
than “very nearly” the same plane, ever
has demonstrated the daily rotation of
this earth.

In the textbooks, which are pretty
good reading for contrary persons like
ourselves, it is said that the circum-
stance that this earth is approximately
an oblate spheroid indicates the rapid
rotation of this earth. But our nega-
tive principle is that nothing exclusively
indicates anything. It does not mat-
ter what an astronomer, or anybody else,
says to support any statement, the sup-
port must be a myth. Even if I could
accept that the astronomers are right, I
could not accept that they can demon-
strate that they’re right. So we hunt
around for opposing data, knowing that
they must be findable somewhere.

We come upon the shape of the sun.
The sun rotates rapidly, but the sun is
not an oblate spheroid; if there is any
departure from sphericity, the sun is a
prolate spheroid. Or we argue that ob-
lateness may be an indication that in
early,, formative times this earth rotated
rapidly, but that now this earth could
be oblate and almost stationary. It may
be another instance of my many creduli-
ties, but here I am accepting that this
roundish, or perhaps pear-shaped, earth
is flattened at the poles, as it is said to
be.

Astronomers cite relative numerous-
ness of meteors as indication of this
earth’s motion in an orbit. Professor
Duncan (“Astronomy,” p. 262) says
that meteors seen after midnight are
about twice as numerous as are those
that are seen before midnight. “This
is because, in the latter half of the night
we are riding on the front side of the
earth, as it moves along its orbit, and
receives meteors from all directions,
whereas in the earlier half we see none
of those which the earth meets ‘head-

LO!

143

THERE is no use comparing little
sparks of meteors, seen at different
times of night, because of course soon
after midnight more of these little
things are likely to be seen than earlier
in the evening, in lingering twilight.
Here, Professor Duncan’s statement is
that when meteors can be seen morely,
more meteors can be seen. That is wis-
dom that we shall not defile.

In the records of great meteors that
were seen in England in the year 1926
— see “Nature, Observatory, English
Mechanic’’ — eighteen were seen before
midnight, and not one was seen after
midnight. All other records that I
know of are against this alleged indica-
tion that this earth moves in an orbit.
For instance, see the catalogue of me-
teors and meteorites published in the
“Rept. Brit. Assoc. Ad. Sci.,’’ 1860.
See page 18, 51 after midnight (from
midnight to noon) ; 146 before midnight
(noon to midnight).

I have records of my own for one
hundred and twenty-five years in which
the preponderance of early meteors is so
great that, if there were any sense to
this alleged indication, it would mean
that this earth is running backward, or
going around the way it shouldn’t. Of
course I note that great meteors are
more likely to be reported before mid-
night, because, though many persons are
out after midnight, mostly they’re not
out reporting meteors. But Professor
Duncan has made a statement, which
depends upon records, and I am check-
ing it up, according to records. Year
1925, for instance — meteors of France
and England — 14 before midnight; 3
after midnight. This record, as I have
it is not complete, but I will hold out
for the proportionality. Most of the
great meteors of 1930 were seen before
midnight.

Whatever becomes of Professor Dun-
can’s statement. I’ll make one, myself,
and that is that if nobody looks up, or
checks up, what the astronomers tell us.

they are free to tell us anything that
they want to tell us. Their system is a
slippery imposition of evasions that can
not be checked up, or that, for various
reasons, mostly are not checked up. But
at least once there was a big check-up.

The 24th of January, 1925 — excite-
ment in New York City.

It was such as, in all foreign coun-
tries, is supposed to arise in America
only when somebody finds out a new
way of making dollars.

It was the morning of the eclipse of
the sun, total over a part of New York
City.

Open spaces in Central Park were
crowded down to a line, as exactly as
possible at 83rd Street. Up in the air
were planes full of observers. Coogan’s
Bluff was lively with scientific gab.
Hospitals were arranging that patients
should see the eclipse. There was
scarcely a dollar in it, and this account
will be believed in England and France
no more than will most of our other
accounts.

At the Fifth Avenue police court,
Magistrate Dale adjourned court and
went with lawyers and cops and persons
out on bail to the roof. In Brooklyn,
the chamber of commerce dropped all
matters of exports and imports and went
to the roof, I don’t suppose every-
body was looking. I can’t accept homo-
geneity. There were probably some
contrary ones who went down into cel-
lars, simply because most of their neigh-
bors were up on roofs. But the New
York Telephone Co. reported that when
the eclipse came not one call came into
cme of its offices for ten minutes.

When there are uproars in New
York, they are such uproars as have
never been heard anywhere else; but I
think that most striking in the records
of silences is this hush that came for
ten minutes upon New York City.

Along the line of 83rd Street, which
had been exactly predicted by the as-
tronomers as the southern limit of the

144

ASTOUNDING STORIES

path of totality, and in places north and
south, were stationed one hundred and
forty-nine observers, sent by the New
York lighting companies to report upon
light effects. With them were photog-
raphers.

At Petropaulovsk, Kamchatka, and at
Cachapoyas, Peru, an eclipse is all that
it should be, and books by astronomers
tell of the minute exactness of the as-
tronomers. But this was in New York
City. Coogan’s Bluff got into this.
There were cops and judges and gun-
men on roofs, and the telephones were
silent. There were one hundred and
forty-nine expert observers, who were
not astronomers. They had photog-
raphers with them.

In time, the astronomers did pretty
well. But, hereafter when they tell of
their refinements, as with disks several
hundred miles away, I shall think, not
of fifty-cent pieces, but of Ferris
Wheels. Their prediction was wrong
by four seconds.

The one hundred and forty-nine ob-
servers for the lighting companies re-
ported that the astronomers were
wrong, in space, by three quarters of
a mile.

It was the day of the big check-up,

IF THE SUN and the planets com-
pose a system that is enormously re-
mote from everything else in ex-
istence, what is it that regularizes the
motions, and why does not the mechan-
ism run down? The astronomers say
that the planets keep moving, and that
a whole system does not run down, be-
cause space is empty, and there is “ab-
solutely” nothing to tend to stop the
moving bodies. See Abbot, “The
Earth and the Stars,” p. 71.

Astronomers say this early in their
books. Later, they forget. Later, when
something else requires explanation,
they tell a different story. They ex-
plain the zodiacal light in terms of
enormous quantities of matter in space.

In their chapters upon meteors, they tell
of millions of tons of meteoric dusts
that fall from space to this earth every
year. Abbot says that space is “abso-
lutely” empty. Ball, for instance, ex-
plains the shortening of the orbit of
Encke’s comet as a result of friction
with enormous quantities of matter in
space. I don’t know how satisfactory,
except to ourselves, our own expression
will be, but compare it with a story of
an absolute vacancy that is enormously
occupied.

There is a tendency to regularize.
Crystals, flowers, and butterflies’ wings.
Proportionately as they become civi-
lized, people regularize, or move in or-
bits. People regularize in eating and
sleeping. There are clockwork Romeos
and Juliets. Everywhere, where the
tendency is not toward irregularization,
the tendency is toward regularization.
Here’s a good specimen of my own wis-
dom. Something is so, except when it
isn’t $ 0 .

Not in terms of gravitation, but in
terms of this tendency to regularize, ce-
lestial periodicities may be explained.

Why does not the mechanism of what
the astronomers think is a solar system
run down?

The astronomers say that this is be-
cause it is unresisted by a resisting me-
dium.

Why does not a heart run down?
Anyway, for a long time?

It is only a part, and, as a part, is
sustained by what may be considered
a whole. If we think of the so-called
solar system, not as a virtually isolated,
independent thing, with stars trillions
of miles away, but as part of what may
be considered an organic whole, within
a starry shell, our expression is that it
is kept going organically, as the heart
of a lesser organism is kept going.

Why does not the astronomers’ own
system, or systematized doctrine, run
down, or why so slow about it? It is
only a part of wider organization, from

AST— 9

LOI

145

which it is receiving maintenance in- the
form of bequests, donations, and funds
of various kinds.

Our opposition is a system of anti-
quated thought, concerned primarily
with the unthinkable. It is supported
by instruments that are believed when
they tell what they should tell. The
germ of the system is the fall of the
rising moon. Its simplest problem is a
fairy-theorem, fit for top-heavy infants,
but too fanciful for grown-up realists.
Its prestige is built upon its predictions.
We have noted one of them that was
three quarters of a mile wrong.

Newtonism is no longer satisfactory.
There is too much that it cannot ex-
plain.

Einsteinism has arisen.

If Einsteinism is not satisfactory,
there is room for other notions.

For records of eclipses during which
the stars were not displaced, as, accord-
ing to Einstein, they should be, see in-
dexes of “Nature.” See vols. 104 ajnd
105. Displacement of spectral lines —
see records of astronomers who have
disagreed. Perihelion-motion of Mer-
cury’s orbit — Einstein calculated with-
out knowing what he was calculating
about. Nobody knows what this eccen-
tricity is. See records of the transits
of Mercury. Neither Newtonians nor
Einsteinites have predicted them right.
See the London Times, April 17 and 24,
1923.

Here Sir J. Larmor shows that, if
Einstein’s predictions of light-effects
during eclipses were verified, they dis-
proved his theory — that, though Pro-
fessor Einstein would be a great mathe-
matician, if in our existence an)rthing
could really be anything, relativity is so
against him that he is only a relatively
great mathematician, and made a bad
error in his calculations, having mistak-
enly doubled certain effects.

Defeat has been unconsciously the
quest of all religions, all philosophies,
and all sciences. If they were con-
AST— 10

sciously trying to lose, they would be ,
successes. Their search has been for
the absolute, in terms of which to ex-
plain the phenomenal, or for the abso-
lute to relate to. Supposed to have been
found, it has been named Jehovah, or
gravitation, or the persistence of force.
Professor Einstein has taken the veloc-
ity of light, as the absolute to relate to.

WE CANNOT divorce the idea of
reciprocity from the idea of relations,
and relating something to the absolute
would be relating the absolute to some-
thing. This is defeating an alleged con-
cept of the absolute, with the pseudo-
idea of the relative absolute. The doc-
trine of Professor Einstein’s is based
not upon an absolute finding but upon
a question:

Which is the more graspable interpre-
tation of the Michelson-Morley experi-
ments :

That no motion of this earth in an
orbit is indicated, because the velocity
of light is absolute:

Or that no motion of this earth in
an orbit is indicated, because this earth
is stationary ?

Unfortunately for my own expres-
sions, I have to ask a third question :

Who, except some one who was out
to boost a theory, ever has demonstrated
that light has any velocity?

Professor Einstein is a Girondist of
the scientific revolution. His revolt is
against classical mechanics, but his
methods and his delusions are as anti-
quated as what he attacks. But it is my
expression that he has functioned.
Though his strokes were wabbles, he
has shown with his palsies the insecuri-
ties of that in science which has been
worshipfully regarded as the most high.

It is my expression that the dissolu-
tion of phenomenal things is as much
a matter of internal disorders as the
effect of any external force, and that
the slump of so many astronomers in
favor of Einstein, who has made good

ASTOUNDING STORIES

in nothing, indicates a state of dissatis-
faction that may precede a revolution
—or that, if a revolt starts in the ob-
servatories, hosts of irreconcilable ob-
servations will be published by the as-
tronomers themselves, cutting down dis-
tances of planets and stars enormously.
I shall note an observation by an as-
tronomer, such as probably no astrono-
mer, in the past, would have published.
It seems to have been recorded re-
luctantly, and a conventional explana-
tion was attempted — ^but it was pub-
lished.

I take from a clipping, from the Los
Angeles Evening Herald, April 28,
1930, which was sent to me by Mr.
L. E. Stein, of Los Angeles. In an ac-
count of the eclipse of the sun, April
28, 1930, Dr. H. M. Jeffers, staff as-
tronomer of Lick Observatory, says:
“We expected the shadow to be but
half a mile in width. Instesid of that,
I think that it was nearer five miles
broad.” He says: “It may be sug-
gested by others that the broad shadow
was cast by astronomical errors due to
the moon l^ing closer to the earth than
we have placed it in theory. But I don’t
believe that this broad belt was caused
by anything but refraction.”

The difference between half a mile
and five miles is great. If the prophets
of Lick Observatory did not take re-
fraction into consideration, all the rest
of their supposed knowledge may be
attributable to incompetence. This dif-
ference may mean that the moon is not
more than a day’s journey away from
this earth.

In “The Earth and the Stars,” p. 211,
Abbot tells of the spectroscopic deter-
minations, by which the new star in
Perseus (February 22, 1901) was
“found" to be at a distance of three
hundred light-years from this earth.
The news was published in the news-
papers. A new star had appeared about
the year 1600, and its light was not
seen upon this earth, until February 22,

1901. And the astronomers were able
to tell this — that away back, at a mo-
ment when Queen Elizabeth — ^well,
whatever she was doing — ^but the as-
tronomers told that just when Queen
Elizabeth was doing whatever she was
doing, the heavens were doing a new
star. And where am I, comparatively?
Where are my poor little yarns of flows
of methylated spirits from ceilings, and
“mysterious strangers,” and bodies on
railroad lines, compared with a yarn of
the new star and Queen Elizabeth?

But the good little star restores my
conceit. In the face of all spectroscopes
in all observatories, it shot out nebulous
rings that moved at a rate of two or
three seconds of arc a day. If they
were three hundred light-years away,
this was a velocity far greater than that
of light is said to be. If they were
three hundred light-years away, it was
motion at the rate of 220,000 miles a
second. There were dogmas that could
not stand this, and the spectroscopic de-
terminations, which were in agreement,
were another case of agreements work-
ing out, as they should not have worked
out.

The astronomers had to cut down one
of their beloved immensities. Whether
as a matter of gallantry, or not, they
spread a denial for Queen Elizabeth’s
reputation to tread upon, saving that
from the mud of an inquiry into just
what her majesty was doing, and sub-
stituting unromantic speculations upon
what, say, Andrew Jackson was up to.

Abbot’s way of explaining the mis-
take is by attributing the first “pro-
nouncements” to “the roughness of the
observations.”

All over this earth, astronomers were
agreeing in these “determinations.”
They were refinements until something
else appeared and roughened them.

It would seem that, after this fiasco
of the readjusted interest in what his-
torical personages were doing, astrono-
mers should have learned something. But,

LO!

147

if Professor Todd is right in his char-
acterization of them, that is impossible.
About twenty years later, this situation,
essentially the same in all particulars,
was repeated. Upon May 27, 1925, a
new star was discovered in the southern
constellation Pictor. By spectroscopic
determination, its distance was “deter-
mined” to be five hundred and forty
light-years. See this stated in a bulletin
of the Harvard observatory, November,
1927.

March 27, 1928 — the new star split.

WHEN the split was seen, astrono-
mers of the South African observatory
repudiated the gospel of their spectro-
scopes of three years before. There
must have been much roughness, even
though there had been three years in
which to plane down the splinters. They
cut the distance from five hundred and
forty to forty light-years. If there
should be any more reductions like this,
there may start a slump of immensities
down toward a conception of a think-
able-sized formation of stars. A dis-
tance cut down 60 X 60 X 24 X 365 x 500
X 186,000 miles is a pretty good start.

Professor Einstein, having no means
of doing anything of the kind, predicts
a displacement of the stars.

Astronomers go out upon an expedi-
tion to observe an eclipse, and, not know-
ing that Einstein has no special means
of predicting anything, they report, pre-
sumably because they want so to re-
port, that he is right.

Then eclipse after eclipse — and Ein-
stein is wrong.

But he has cast an ancient system into
internal dissensions, and has cast doubts
upon antiquities of thought almost as
if his pedantic guesses had had better
luck.

Whether the time has come, or not,
here is something that looks as if it is
coming :

An editorial in the New York Sun,

September 3, 1930, views of somebody
else quoted:

“The public is being played upon and
utterly misled by the dreamery of the
rival mathematical astronomers and
physicists — not to mention the clerics —
w'ho are raising the game of notoriety
to a fine art ; in rivalry to religious mys-
ticism, a scientific pornography is being
developed, and attracts the more because
it is mysterious.”

These are the views of Professor
Henry E. Armstrong, emeritus head of
the department of chemistry, at City
and Guilds College, South Kensington,
London.

This is revolt inside. That is what
develops into revolution.

Professor Armstrong’s accusation of
pornography may seem unduly stimulat-
ing; but, judging by their lecheries in
other respjects, one sees that all the as-
stronomers have to do is to discover
that stars have sex, and they’ll have us
sneaking to bookstores for .salacious
“pronouncements” and “determinations”
upon the latest celestial scandals. This
would popularize them. And after any-
thing becomes popular — then what?

That the time has come — or is com-
ing — for more of the revolt within

Or that, if they cannot continue upon
their present pretenses of progress, the
astronomers must return from their mo-
tionless excursions. A generation ago,
they told of inconceivable distances of
stars. Then they said that they had, a
thousand times, multiplied some of these
distances: but if the inconceivable is
multiplied any number of times, it is
still the same old inconceivability. If,
at the unthinkable, thought stops, but
if thought must move somewhere, the
astronomers, who cannot go on expan-
sively, will, if they do think, have to
think in reductions. If the time has come,
there will be a crash in the observatories,
with astronomers in a panic selling short
on inconceivabilities.

Upon September 2, 1930, began a.

148

ASTOUNDING STORIES

meeting of the American Astronomical
Society^ in Chicago. A paper that was
read by Dr. P. Van de Kamp may be
a signal for a panic. Said he: “Some
of the stars may actually be thousands
of light-years nearer than astronomy be-
lieves them to be.”

That — with some extension — is about
what I am saying.

Says the astronomer Leverrier —
back in times when an astronomical sys-
tem is growing up, and is of use in
combating an older and decaying or-
thodoxy, and needs support and pres-
tige — says he — “Look in the sky and at
the point of my calculations you will
find the planet that is perturbing Ura-
nus.”

“Lo!” as some of the astronomers
say in their books. At a point in the
sky that can be said — ^to anybody who
does not inquire into the statements —
to be almost exactly the point of Le-
verrier ’s calculations is found the planet
Uranus, to which — for all the public
knows — can be attributed the perturba-
tions of Uranus.

Up goes the useful renown of the
astronomers. Supported by this tri-
umph, they function.

But if they’re only the figments of
one of the dreamlike developments of
our pseudo-existence, they, too, must
pass away, and they must go by way
of slaughter, or by way of laughter.
Considering all their doings, I think
that through hilarity would be the fitter
exit.

Later:

“Look at the sky,” we are told that
the astronomer Lowell said, “and at the
point of my calculations, you will find
the planet that is pierturbing Neptune.”
But this is in the year 1930.

Nevertheless we are told that a planet
is found almost exactly at the point of
the calculations. The exultations of the
astronomers are spread-headed.

But this is later. The damned thing
takes a tack that shows that it could

no more have been perturbing Neptune
than I, anyway just at present, could
cast a meeting of the National Acad-
emy of Sciences into disorder by walk-
ing past it.

They must be murdered, or we shall
laugh them away. There is always
something that can be said in favor of
murder, but in the case of the astrono-
mers that would be willful waste of the
stuff for laughter. Orthodox astrono-
mers have said that Leverrier used no
mathematical method by ■ which he
could have determined the position of
Neptune. See Lowell’s “The Evolu-
tion of Worlds,” p. 124. By way of
stuff for the laugh, I mention that one
of these disbelieving astronomers was
Lowell.

ONE TIME, in a mood of depres-
sion, I went to the New York Public
Library, and feeling a want for a little
light reading, I put in a slip for Low-
ell’s “Memoir on a Trans-Neptunian
Planet.” I got even more amusement
than I had expected.

Just where was this point, determined
by Lowell, almost exactly in which his
planet was found? The spread-heads —
the special articles^over and over in
the newspapers of the world — “almost
exactly.”

Says Lowell, page 105 : “Precise de-
termination of its place does not seem
possible. A general direction alone is
predicable.”

The stuff for a laugh that is as satis-
factory as murder is in the solemn an-
nouncements by the astronomers, about
April Fool’s Day, 1930, that they liad
found Lowell’s planet almost exactly in
the place, precise determination of
which does not seem possible

Their chatter over Lowell’s mag-
nificent accuracy in pointing in a gen-
eral direction

Then the tack of a thing that showed
it could not have been all this indefinite-
ness, anyway

LO!

149

265 years, instead of 3,000 years

And instead of going, the thing was
coming.

If they can’t tell whether something
is coming or going, their solemn an-
nouncements upon nearness or farness
may be equally laughable.

WE THINK of intermundane isola-
tions that have been maintained, as once
the Americas were kept separated from
Europe, not by vast and untraversable
distances, but by belief in vast and un-
traversable distances. I have no sense
of loneliness in thinking that the inor-
ganic sciences that are, by inertia, hold-
ing out for the isolation of this earth
have lost much power over minds.
There are dissatisfactions and contempts
everywhere.

There may be civilizations in the
lands of the stars, or it may be that,
in the concavity of a starry shell, vast,
habitable regions have been held in re-
serve for colonization from this earth.
Though there is considerable opposition
to wars, they are, as at any moving-
picture places one can see, still popular ;
but other eliminations of human beings
have waned, and it is likely that for a
long time birth control will have no
more than its present control upon
births.

The pestilences that used to remove
millions are no longer so much heard ot.
It may be that an organic existence is,
by lessening eliminations, preparing a
pressure of populations upon this earth
that can have relief only in enormous
colonizing outlets somewhere else. It
is as if concordantly, the United States
has shut down, as a relief, to super-
abundances of people in Europe, and as
if representing the same purpose or
plan, Australia and Canada, as well as
the United States, are shutting out Asi-
atics. It is as if cooperatively with the

simultaneous variations of need, avi-
ation is developing, as the means of

migratory reliefs

If there is a near-by land that is a

revolving shell of stars

And if, according to data that I have
collected, there is not increasing cold-
ness and attenuation of air, past a zone
not far from this earth.

Nineteen hundred and thirty some-
thing or another — may be nineteen hun-
dred and forty or fifty

Skyward ho!

The treks to the stars. Flows of ad-
venturers — and the movietone news —
press agents and interviews — and some-
body about to sail to Lyra reduces ex-
penses by letting it be known what

brand of cigarettes he’ll take along

Caravels with wings — and the cov-
ered planes of the sky — and writers of
complaints to the newspapers — this
dumping of milk bottles and trash from
the expeditions is an outrage. New
comets are watched from this earth —
long trains of voyagers to the stars,
when at night they turn on their lights.
New constellations appear — ^the cities of
the lands of the stars.

And then the commonplaceness of it !
Personally conducted tours to Tau-
rus and Orion. Summer vacations (Mi
the brink of Vega. “My father tells
of times, when people, before going to
the moon, made their wills.” “Just the
same there was something peaceful
about those old skies. It’s getting on
my nerves, looking up at all those lip-
stick and soap and bathing-suit signs.”
The coromonplaceness of it all! Of
course the stars are near. Who, but
a few old fossils, ever thought other-
wise? Does the writer of these articles
think that he found out anything new?
All these notions of his were matters
of common knowledge, away back in the
times of ancient Greece.

Charles Fort nears his titanic and astounding conclusions. The next in-
stallment is zntally important.

Still Crowding!

Do you like the new type? I do. And it carries about twenty-five
per cent more words to each page than the old. Notice Brass Tacks
this month. We can't begin to get all the letters in, but we’re doing
OUT best by reducing the type size there.

If you don’t like the smaller type for letters, we can change back;
but it means that we can print close to £fty letters each month. Some
of the long letters give us a real problem. We don’t like to cut them —
but it isn’t fair to leave out five short letters and print one which is
very long.

Some one this month accuses me of having a “staff” of hack
writers. Well, I’m coming closer to having a staff on Astounding
than on most magazines — because we’ve combed the field to get your
favorite writers. And one after another they have come to Astounding.

We buy all stories on a free-lance basis. Nothing is “ordered.”
We want to give you the best there is, and I know we’re doing it.
That doesn’t mean perfection. When we reach the peak, there is no
place to go but down. I expect our magazine to keep climbing upward
for a long, long time.

We have more surprises coming. One after another we will bring
them to you, and as fast and often as we can. I hope to make another
important announcement on stories next month.

Meantime, I want to thank the many readers who have responded
to my request that each of you interest one new buyer for Astounding.
I appreciate it. And if the response has been as universal as I hope it
has, nothing will stand in the way of our continued progress.

This month we give you as big — and even bigger — a list of com-
plete stories as the entire story-content of any other science-fiction
magazine. And in addition we give you the Skylark, Legion Of Space,
and Lo! We do not deprive you of one thing in order to include
another. We add it. And so long as our reading audience grows
larger, we shall continue to do the same.

You know, there’s something about the readers of Astounding
Stories that is a little different from any other magazine group. It’s
more intimate, closer, with a clearly defined kinship of common inter-
est. That’s why I feel free to come to yon and ask you to reach out
and find new members for our family circle. You know that I wouldn’t
ask a favor without reason. And I know you appreciate what we have
done so far.

We all want to reach wider horizons in our own way. And we
know that Astounding Stories is our progressive medium for doing
so in science-fiction.

And somehow I feel that I’m writing this to yon, personally — as
I hope you feel when you write to me.

■The Editor.

A History That We Hope Comes True

Dear Editor :

1 believe I can lay claim to being at least one
of your oldest readers. Even now, fifty years
after the event, I can remember the thrill I ex-
perienced when, in September of 1933, I picked
up the new Astounding Stories, after it had
been renewed by Street & Smith. Fifty years,
but many of those famous old stories linger as
memories. Pleasant memories, too.

The most revolutionary magazine in the world
of the period, its first brilliant stroke was the
invention of the term “thought-variant.** And
thought-variants came ; indeed, though in a
very early letter to you I stated that it would
be impossible for writers to think up absolutely
new ideas to write into stories worthy of being
called thought-variants, they came, without one
miss, each month for fifty years. Of course,
it is now a widely spread belief that due to
those seemingly impossible theorizings of yes-
terday’s authors, science has been pushed for-
ward in its stride almost a decade. The recent
successful landing of a pilotless space-ship, pro-
pelled by light, on Mars, was and is known as
the direct result of a story printed in the April,
1963, issue of Astounding, a little less than
twenty years ago. And the name? Well, every
one is familiar with that and its author.

Of course, it’s a far cry from the old pulp-
paper magazine of ’34 to *62, to the handsome
magazine that is read by one quarter of the
families of the world now ; but nevertheless, I
like to think of the Astounding that featured
those master writers, Schachner, Kelly, William-
son, Feam, West, Smith, Wandrei, Vincent, and
innumerable others. Most of them continued to
write for you for two decades but for many
reasons new authors succeeded them, and in
many ways they are better : Edgar Hayries, Ali
Logan, John Becklemeyer, John Siedle, Peipton
8. Tanner, and Brenton Smith, who, by the
way, was the grandson of E. E. Smith. There
were others and others, but why mention them?
Most of them are world-renowned.

Stories? No one can remember them all.
There must now be a total of thousands. There
were novels by the score, short stories and novel-
ettes, many of a quality which sometimes brings
them to the fore aa subject matter for classes in
literature all over the world. You will find the

short story The Damnahle Conqueet, by Sidney
Smiler, in almost every collection of classic short
stories. Of course, there are many stories that
stand out, no matter what bridge of years stands
between them and us ; and out of all those, there
are those that, some years after he started
writing them, brought Edward Elmer Smith a
much-deserved fame as a novelist. Those stories
of his have become particularly popular now,
just as it has helped bring about the present
immense circulation of the magazine, through the
landing of a space-ship on Mars. You can buy
the entire wt of his works at any bookstore —
they are thirty in number.

Smith wrote for us a series of twelve Skylark
stories, besides other fantasies. His career with
Astounding began when he wrote The Skylark
0/ Valeron, a b^ook which attracted the attention
or many of the world’s foremost scientists.
Smith followed up this tale with what I con-
sider his best story : The Infinite Skylark. Then
in quick succession came The Skylark Beyond
Time, The Ultra-dimensional Skylark, Skylark
Seven, The Skylark of Napisson, The Skylark of
Higamhr^ and several more.

Jack Williamson was another much-liked au-
thor, starting off an enviable career when he
wrote The Legion Of Space. A host of novels
flowed from his pen after that, in your magazine
as well as in others. All of them came out as
books. With E. E. Smith, Jack Williamson was
referred to as the Jules Verne of the 20th
century.

Now as to your present issue, the one which
is your 50th anniversary. I still feel a kind
of awe when I read it. Still the term “thought-
variant” continues ; and still more thought-
variant stories are published. And by now I am
convinced there will be no end to them. Rather,
we are only at the beginning — I, who wrote you
fifty years ago, saying you would never be able
consistently to publish one a month over a long
period of years ! Your present thought-variant
is grand — The Slice Of Space, by Andrew Fren-
sen. The serial, The Impossible Dimension, by
Janus S. Sarmer, is certainly worthy of the
50th anniversary issue. I enjoyed Sarmer’s ex-
planation of a man walking, at the same time,
in directions opposite to each other, yet in but
one place. I am glad you brought this author
back after an absence of nearly three years. The
serial which was continued from last month Is
also very good. In fact. An Btemity of Time-

152

ASTOUNDING STORIES

le$»nei9 by Ricbard Strithera Cromwell, will go
down in history as one of the greatest noyels.

1 suppose I had better conclude this long let>
ter. My wife is calling me to dinner, and threo
hungry grandchildren are home from the sleeping
schools, almost starved. Sometimes, when 1
feet in a less selfish mood, 1 allow those three
children, all over ten, to roam their way, one
at a time, through those old Astoundiugs. They
must open the tin boxes contnining each volume
very carefully, handle them as carefully, and re>
place them as carefully. To me, they are so
valuable that I refuse erery offer that has been
made me by some of the foremost magazine col*
lectors of the times. And they have offered
fabulous prices, too. I have every copy of
Astounding. I wonder if there are any readers
who can say as mucht — Claude Haverstock,
Rx-mayor Air City No. 6, Stationed Above Cln*
cinnati, Ohio.

**Do!d Besf'

Dear Editor ;

The July Astounding Stories cover was very
good.

Bffftre B«rth Oaiac was great. It was truly a
thought'variant. J. R. Peam propounded many
new ideas and some old ones. However, the
alien race on that artificial planet had me guess*
ing.

'Or. Lu-Uie was great. All ant and termite
stories are welcome. That philosophy was cer-
tainly new.

Spoor Of The Bat shows that a good inter-
planetary story can still be had, and I enjoyed
The Nervele$s Man Immensely.

The Radio Mind-Rap was typical of Coblentr.
His stories are original, refreshing, and thor-
oughly entertaining.

The Electric Snare was short, but a good
story.

And Lol continues to be everything you said
it was.

As to the illustrations : Dold is undoubtedly
the best man for the inside work. As for the
covers, I cannot compare them, because I have
only seen Brown’s work. 1 would like to see a
Dold cover. — Raymond Peel Mariella, 5878 Wood-
crest Ave., Philadelphia, Pa.

Astounding Has Never Had A StaS Of
Authors, Does Not "Order” Stories,
And Has No Such "Fundamental
Policy”

Dear Editor :

I was Tery well pleased with the July Issue.
However, when It came to reading Before Barth
Came, I Just had to shut my eyes to the im-
plauslblllty of the story and enjoy It In spite ot
this silliness. It was well written despite the
fact that It was by one of these stock authors.
The new Astounding embraces that policy char-
acteristic of all Street & Smith magasines and
many others ; the employing of stall authors.
This policy plays havoc with the free-lance
writers and lowers the quality of the magaalne.
It la useless to ask that It be discontinued, for
It la a fundamental polic.v.

Spoor Of The Bat was superb. This story had
a plot. It did not merely expound some rattle-
brained "thought-variant” theory and then build
a series ot hair-raising adventures from the re-
sults of the investigating of this theory. It had
mystery to It and it accomplished something.

Dr. La-Mte and The Nervelese Man were both
quite good, the latter as a study of reactions.
But The Electric Snare was positively ridicu-
lous. and Ount Of Eternal Day was not good.

Incidentally, readers, I know who is the editor
of this magazine. Being curious, I found out.
His name Is- — but If I tell this letter will

not be printed. I hope the editor does not hold
it back out of modesty. For I choose to praise
him. When Clayton Magazines liquidated, our
editor found himself looking for a job aad at
present Is editing Astounding. He has had years
of editorial experience . and bis competency is
shown by tke fact that he held a position higher
titnUrly than hia present one. It Is his experi-
ence that enables him to know so much about
editing, aad Street k Smith’s solvency that en-
ables him to put his Ideas into practice. He
has not come much Into the IlmeUght. and few
of us would know him anyhow, despite the fact
that he It Inclnded In Who's Who In America. —
Philip Allison Turner, Hiram, Ohio.

"Thought-variant:” Out Of The Usual
Thought-channels

Dear Editor :

Science-fiction for a long time dominated the
field of my literary delvings. until, three years
ago, I felt that either I had Intellectually out-
grown the puerile writings of little-informed
men or that the magazines then extant had de-
generated Into unworthy pulps. From time to
time, hoping to find the excellence of the 1926
and 1927 creations, 1 dipped into the sundry
science-fiction magazines, including your own,
each time to be frustrated in discovering stories
of worth. Last month a chance reading of your
June number “astounded” me in many senses of
the word. I found a magazine with storing which
were readable and well told. Stories which, still
subordinating rational scientific thought for the
spectacular, nevertheless gave science some place
In their thematic make up. I was sufficiently
enthused to buy the July issue. Perhaps you
would be willing to lend an ear to the criticisms
of one who has investigated and knows quite
thoroughly the entire field — plots, formats, sci-
ence In general — of science-fiction.

Frankly, I do not know the meaning of the
term “thought-variant.” Judging from Its July
representative, I doubt If it is worth knowing.
J. R. Fearn runs the entire gamut of old science-
fiction errors which have been mulled over a
thousand times. The story, were it not for its

P rominent position in the magazine, would not
e worthy of dtsenssion.

Dr. Lu-Mie, though faintly reminiscent ot a
almilar and better story long ago written by
Dr. Keller, was none the less readable.

Spoor Of The Sat; Following the format of
a hundred similar stories. It remains the best
written In the issue on hand. "Toom” If obo
of the most Interesting characters I have met
In sclence-flclon. Somewhat different from the
average blood-and-flre hero.

The Eerveleti Man: A chemical which will

cause permanent analgesia without affecting
other body-functions is a bit far fetched. The
author makes no attempt to explain its action
on the body. It Is more of this explanation that
we need. It Is science-fiction’s only claim over
the other pulps.

Lot: Interesting, hut stupid in its Implica-

tions. Horrible hnmor.

Astounding Stories, in general, stands out in
Its field. It seems that It Is only the field which
Is weak. Men like Drs. Smith and Keller, John
Campbell, and a few others remain the only
jnstlficatfon. Well, I’ll give the magazine a few
more trials, until the end of Smith's new Skylark
story at least.

How abont a few stories nsing Einstein’s con-
cepts as the sclentlflc medium — but using them
Intelligently? — Cyril Endfleld, 537 Monroe Ave.,
Scranton, Pa.

Awful

Dear Editor :

Tour June Issue of Astounding Stories was a

£ rlze number! All the stories were good. The
est atory In tho Issue. I believe, was The Hm-

BRASS TACKS

153

peror*t Heart, by Henry J. Kostkos. At least,
tblR story impressed me the most.

Cut off the edges, to make them smooth.

Put the date of the magazine in larger lettew.
And don’t get anything more like Lot Its
awful ! — J. H. Hennigar, Bast Tawas, Michigan.

Excellent

Dear Sditor :

Your June issue was an excellent one. 1
have yet to read an unexciting yarn by Muiray
Leinster, His Sidevciee In Time is great. But
^if time has infinite extensions north and south,
as well as east and west, why not up and down
as well? If it is actually infinite, then it fol-
lows that periods vary, not as separate roads
running in the same direction, but as a br^d,
level plain, changing by infinitesimal gradations
from one coordinate to another. That would
make the theory untenable, it seems, for we
simply can’t picture ourselves as living and do-
ing ttringR in an infinite number of time co-
ordinates at once.

The Legion Of Space is certainly gathering
power. I’m afraid I shall have to revise my
previously expressed opinion and say that Jack
Williamson has done well indeed with this alien
menace story. — Jack Winks, B. E., 7817 East
End Ave., Chicago, 111.

Reed Four— Kept One

Dear Editor :

Before Earth Came and Spoor Of The Bat
were both excellent. Spoor Of The Bat was
especially interesting to me, as stories of rocket
ships and flights to other planets are the kind I
like. Some more of Zagat. Brown was good on
the July cover, and Dold certainly pencilled a
masterpiece for Spoor. Keep this latter artist
right on the job.

I’d like to compliment Charles Fort on Lot
It’s certainly bolding our interest. July
Astounding Stories was one of the best issues,
on the whole, for some time. I just started
reading science-fiction a few months ago. Pur-
chasing four magazines I finally concluded that
Astounding Stories had the best reading material
and the finest illustrations.

And now for a few suggestions. Why not
make the cover of stiffer quality, and cut the
pages Btraighter? And, oh, yes. how about some
more stories of what life will be like in the
future? — Fred Messlck, 922 Washington Ave.,
Woodbury, New Jersey.

A Faithful And Helpful Reader

Brickbat Target — Mr. Fearn

Dear Editor : ... *

To me the most astounding thing about
Astounding Stories is that you actually accept
and publish such utter and unadulterated tripe
as The Brain Of Light, and Before Barth Came,
by John Feam, in a magazine supposedly de-
voted to scientific fiction. Fearn’s stuff is un-
doubtedly fiction, but even to suggest that It is
scientific is an unforgivable libel on science. I
am a graduate of an engineering college, and
have always b^n told that any true science de-
pends upon the greatest possible accuracy.
Feam’s stories are composed of the most
astounding collection of inaccuracies and vague
statements it has ever been my misfortune to
meet. I grant you that stories such as you pub-
lish require imagination, and that Feam has a
most fertile imagination, but that seems to be
about the ohly equipment be has for writing any
kind of stories. ^

I do not ask that your stories be probable,
or even that they be possible, but I do think
that they ought to be written so that at the
time of reading they seem to be within the
bounds of possibility. Fearn’s stories are so
filled with poorly worded statements of absolute
impossibilities that I find it impossible to appre-
ciate the flights of fancy at which he Is so adept.

Here is a honey from Before Earth Came :
^‘Inside this meter is an invisible recoiling wave*
length.” I grant that any wave-length is in-
visible, being nothing but a measure of distance,
and having no substance whatever. For the
same reason it is pure balderdash to speak of a
"recoiling” wave-lenrth. He might as well speak
of a recoiling centimeter, or a recoiling inch,
or mile, or foot, or any other unit of linear
measure.

Speaking of "Mlranium,” Feam produces this
brain-wave : “Opaque and heavy to the eye, but
transparent and magnetic to light-waves, it
gathers the faintest possible radiations of light
to itself for a distance of ten million miles and
brings those light-waves to itself without the
faintest trace of distortion or fading.” Well !
Well ! Does Feam not know that all that any
lens does it is to transmit light-waves? And
does be not know that ten billion miles is but
0.0017 light-year, and that we now have tele-
scopes that make pictures of stars hundreds of
light-years distant?

If I buy any more copies of Astounding
Stories it ^11 be for Charles Port’s Lo/, which
1 find extremely interesting.

Let me say in conclusion that I have read a
number of well and logically written stories in
Astounding Stories such as Anceetral Voices and
Bebirth, by Thomas Cdlvert McClary, of which,
unfortunately. I read only the last half. If
you will eliminate all such trash as Feam writes,
and get more stories like those two (and particu-
larly BebirthJ, you will have a worthwhile maga-
zine. — William M. Danner, 6843 Thomas Blvd.,
Pittsburgh, Pa.

Dear Editor :

I see a good many inquiries in Brass Tacks
for back issues. I have all copies of the old
Astounding Stories from the first copy (January,
1930) to September, 1932, inclusive. These are
available for sale.

Astounding Stories has undergone a decided
improvement under Street A Smith. The
thought-variants have been exceptionally good,
and all that have been printed yet have been

i ust what the name states — thought-variant
Personally, I believe tbe best story, long or
short, ever printed in Astounding Stories was
Bebirth.

1 have “done my bit” by Interesting two new
readers. Come on, folks! Give the editor a
hand.

Personally, I would like to see a short bio-
graphic sketch of the authors, with a picture, If
possible. — Harry E. Cowan. R. D. 1. Box 217,
uu Bois, Penna.

Our Iwaginatjon Quails

Dear Editor :

It is with great pleasure that I note the
“come-back” of Astounding Stories, and I am
glad that I have not become a deserter. Ah,
yes ! 1 have been faithful. I kept on cheering

even when it seemed to be fading out, and at
last I have been rewarded, for good old Astound-
ing Stories again has emerged at the top with
flying colors and an outlook that promises to be
superior to the “good old days.”

I think the thought-variant stories a fine
idea, and I hope all tbe authors keep up their
good work in prodncing material which makes
Astounding Stories a source of pleasure to all
science-fiction fans, in spite of tbe damning
words of pessimists who frown on the impossi-
bilities of what they term as “Imbecile drivel.”

I have a friend across the ocean who curses

154

ASTOUNDING STORIES

(hi* owa word!) all 8clenc«-fietioa atoriea. la
a recrat letter he poured oat Soods of uncom-
pllraeatary phraseoloftr agaiast the authors o(
such “inpoasIMe.” “senseless” stories which
made mjr ears burn with indignation. Heh I
heh I Imagine a nice "sensible” tale of the
West or a cute little love story imbedded within
the pages of Astounding Stories ! — Miss E. M.
Poppe, Boa 727, West Brownsville, Penna.

Thank You, Mr, Zagat

Dear Editor :

So unusual is it for an author to be com-
pletely satisfied with the illustration appended
to his yarn that 1 am impelled to write thanking
you for selecting Elliot bold to grace Spoor 0/
The Bat with bis excellent drawing. Mr. Dold's
draftsmaaship Is splendid, bis meticulous atten-
tion to detail exceptional, but the most striking
feature of his work Is the evidence it displays
that the artist has read the story he illustrates.
I find that the picture breathes the mood of
mv owa narrative, the delicate poise between fa-
miliar character and unfamiliar environment
that is BO diflcult to achieve in words, and so
almost impossible (to Judge from other lUustra-
tiaas it has been my lot to draw in my not-
llmited experience with your and other publi-
cations) to attain In the artists' media.

My felicitatioBS also on the excellent Issue.—
Arthur Lee Zagat, 1315 Merriam Are., New
Torii.

"A Mile"

fMitttr !

Astoaading Stories ! The beet magazine of its
kind. The magasine so far as 1 am eonceraed.
If (oar) magazine continues to be as good as
the Ust seven issues, I arill be your reader for
life. I say the last seven issues because that is
when I started reading Astounding Stories.

1 read two other science-fiction magazines,
but Astounding Stories has them beat by a mile.
And, what’s more. Astounding Stories is cer-
tainly getting further in the lead.

There was only one story that I did not care
for in the lost seven issues, and that was Bo-
Urth.

I welc o ase the addition of pages with open
arms. To me the readers’ comer. Brass Tacks,
is an Important part of the magazine. — Max
Asbahr, Corvallis, Oregon.

Correspondents Wanted

Dear Editor :

Although I have read only two issues of
Aslouuding StofTes. I assure you I am going to
keep on taking the magasine.

ImI is all any one could want in a depart-
ment tor information on superscience that has
actually happened. I think Part Four was the
most Interesting. It is the only department of
its kind I have ever seen. Brass Tacks is an-
other good feature. The majority of the let-
ters I have read in the department praise yonr
msgaziae.

In the July issue, I have no favorite story.
This is hecanse I enjoyed them all so much
I really can’t give much preference to any of
them. If brought right down to the subject,
however. I might say that Before Barth Came
has a very slight edge over the others. liCt’s
have some more by Fearn, Zagat, Kruse, and
Wsndrei. They all write excellent storlea Yonr
thought-variant idea is good.

About the drawing. I think the cover pic-
ture is better than the pictures heading the
stories, hot they’re good, all the same. I agree

with Mr. Arthnr Gnaedinger that Elliot Dold Is
the best interior artist.

Now. editor, if you have had the courage to
read this far, might I ask a favor of you? Will
you please enter somewhere In Brass Tacks the
fact that I would like to correspond with other
readers interested in science? I do a lot of ex-
perimenting with chemistry, electricity, and
radio. Thanks a lot. — Francis Donovan, Pond-
vllle Hospital, Wrentham, Mass.

Thank You. You’re Doing Excellently!

Dear Editor:

I have just received the July Issue at Astound-
ing Stories, and it looks good. I see from the
editor’s page that Astounding Stories is going
to be enlarged by twenty-five thousand words.
Bemarkable ! — and right after the editor’s an-
nouncement of the unexpected arrival of the
Bhtflork. Re^ly. Astounding Stories is getting
to be a real headache to its competitors.
Astounding Stories only costs “a pair of ten-
cent pieces” (to quote from Mr. Milton
Kaletaky’s interestingly written letter). Well,
I’d be more than willing to give a buck tor a
copy, and even then I’ll know I’m getting more
than my money’s worth.

Here's a few things I’d like to see back
again : Strange Tales, Dr. Bird. Hawk Carse, and
John Hanson. They were ail real features of
the old Astounding Stories. We “old-timers”
really miss them (at least the majority of us,
anyway). Let’s have a final answer — do we
or don’t we get them? If not, why not?

About these thought-variant stories — great
stuff! I enjoyed Rebirth a lot.

I can’t kick about the illustrations. Would
like to see Wesso back, however. A lot of hrlck-
bata came his way, but the persons who flung
them did so without any reason.

Charles Port’s Lot la a marvelous piece of
work. Mr. Fort deserves to be congratulated by
all followers of science-fiction.

Incidentally, editor, I induced three people
to start reading Astounding Stories — all of the
female sex. You asked for codperation In pro-
moting circulation — well, how am I doing? —
led Lutwin, 172 Pavonia Ave., Jersey City,
N. J.

"Nice, Long Thought-variant^

Dear Editor :

Your serial Lot la really swell and I enjoy
every Installment. Please have only one serial
novel ; I have already stopped reading the other
two science-fiction magazines because they have
too many seripis. Another thing : Why don't

you put out a quarterly magazine of Astound-
ing? Yon could have some nice, long thought-
variant stories, and I'm sure it would go over
big. — Seymour J. .Sandes, 1006 Gerard Avenue,
Bronx, New York City. New York.

Right— That’s Our Aim

Dear Editor :

I am really very well pleased with your splen-
did magazine.

I first started reading it when I was eleven
years old. I really read it more for the thrills
it contained than (or anything else. Now I am
older and I enjoy this t.vpe of magazine not
so much for the thrills contained therein as for
the splendid type of fiction it publishes.

The best story you have published in the last
six months is The Legion Of Space, by William-
son.

I believe that I understand yonr point of view
in publishing the new Astounding Stories. You

BRASS TACKS

155

Wknt to make it entirelr different fr<«n tie rest
of the magaaines on tbe market, new illnstra-
tlons, lower price, more pagea, et cetera. All
in all yon want to give your readers a square
deal, and you certainly are doing it.

Please give us a quarterly, and publlsb
Astounding Stories twice a month, and I be-
lieve I can interest more than one new reader
in tbis magasine.

Best luck for future isanes. — James N.
Mooney, 416 W. llSth 8t„ New York City, New
York.

More Fearo Wanted

Dear Editor :

Jack and I have been reading Astounding
Stories for more than four years. Since Street »
Smith took it over, there have been quite a few
very good stories, such as Oolottut, which was
one of the best stories I have read in a long
time.

We have formed a science club and Astound-
ing Stories is one of the magazines which each
month we do not fail to get.

I am glad to hear that you are going to print
the Skylark.

Bow about more stories by Mr. John Russell
Peam? — Ira M. Schey, Jr., 154 Broadview
Avenue, New Rochelle, N. Y.

Then We Don’t Have To Worry!

Dear Editor ;

If you can furnish us with stories one half as
good as Rebirth and Succuhas, you won’t have
to worry about adding new readers to your al-
ready large list.

That Idea of destroying civilization and then
restoring it in more perfect order was original
as far as I can see.

Charles Fort’s Lo! is quite an interesting fea-
ture. I can readily see why authors use his book
for ideas.

Keep your editorial page and if possible take
two pages In handing us advance information
on future contents of Astounding Stories. —
Michael Racano, 51 Brookwood St., East Orange,
N. J.

A Forum For Theories

Dear Editor :

Tbis is my first letter, altbougb I am an ar>
dent science-fiction fan.

In your July issue, Spoor Of The Bat was
really fine. I enjoy this type of story.

Charles Fort’s Lo/ is very interesting. Why
not open a forum in connection with Lol in
which readers may express theories concerning
it? I have no such theories of my own, but am
sure others have that would make interesting
reading.

The Legion Of Space Is getting better ail the
time. Orchids to Jack Williamson for his Con>
tinned fine work.

]jK)n’t you think the illustration heading Brass
Tacks is rather ancient? How about something
modem ?

I rate the July issue as follows :

1. Legion Of Space fine

2. Spoor Of The Bat fine

3. Before Earth Came good %

4. The Verveleee Man good

6. The Electric Snare fair

6. The Radio Mind-Ray fair

7. Gitn$ Of Eternal Day fair

8. Dr. LnhMie not so hot

— David J. Brown, 15 8. Veitch Ave., Ballston,
Virginia.

Even Modesty Cotddn*t Prevent Our
Publishing This!

To My Fellow Readers :

If the editor doesn’t let his modesty prevent
him from printing this little effusion, I’m going
to broadcast to all the enlightened men and
women who read “our" big magasine that, in
the opinion of this humble scribe, we are getting
tbe biggest break ever offered the readers of any
magazine, let alone those in the field of Bclence>
fiction.

Surely no editor ever before made so many
beneficial changes in one short period as have
been made in Astounding Stories. More pages,
better covers, incomparably better and more
varied stories (the "thought-variants" for in-
stance), new authors, more pages devoted to
readers' letters than any two competitors, a
lower price than any comparable magazine, and
best of all, the latest and greatest Skylark story !
If that isn’t an overwhelming improvement, then
figures have taken to imitating Baron Munchau-
sen. As good old "Skylark" Seaton would say :
*T check you to eighteen decimals, Ace."

Not only have all the things mentioned above
been actually incorporated into tbe regular
make-up of the magazine, but if we give our
wholehearted support there is a good chance of
effecting even greater improvement. Our editor
assures us that if the demand becomes great
enough. Astounding Stories will become a bi-
monthly, and if that isn’t an improvement, I
miss my guess a couple of light-years.

Who knows? Perhaps with enough readers
and with their support solidly in back of the
idea, we shall at last achieve that goal of all
science-fiction fans, a real, dyed-in-the-wool,
blown-in-the-bottle science-fiction movie, taken
right from the Skylark, or some other meri-
torious story !

I can’t occupy too much space, or I’d do more
than merely mention tbe objectionable features
which have been entirely eliminated, such as
dry-as-dust reprints of stories which appeared
ten years ago in book form and yarns so much
alike you can’t tell one from the other, except
for the fact that one heroine has blue and an-
other brown eyes. I will take time to add, how-
ever, that in fifteen years of more or less con-
tinuous reading of science-fiction, I've never
seen a more startling and welcome change in a
magazine than Astounding Stories has made.

Now then, even tbe most skeptical of us must
admit the truth of tbe above facts, so I think
it is up to us readers to get solidly back of our
magazine and push for all we’re worth. After
all, it doesn’t cost anything to introduce a new
reader to Astounding Stories, Just a little per-
suasion to try it once, and the good old maga-
zine will do the rest. Let’s all try and win
over one more reader, and show tbe publishers
and the editor that the "New Deal” in maga-
zines is appreciated and Justified.

How about it, gang, what do you say?—*
L. J. Stanton, RM3C, Box 10, "D" Division,
U. S. S. Colorado, New York, N. Y.

Back Copies For Sale

Dear Editor :

I have in my possession a number of old
Astounding Stories, scattered over a period of
time dating from 1930 to 1933, inclusive. I am
offering these for sale to any other readers.
With one exception, however, they all have cov-
ers and are in good condition. The one excep-
tion, however, is perfectly readable, but has been
disastrously exposed to tbe weather. Any one
interested can write me for full particulars as
to dates, et cetera. 1 am asking ten cents for
one copy. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?

I hope, Mr. Editor, that you don’t think I’m
disposing of these magazines for lack of inter-
est in Astounding Stories. Your present publica-
tion is positively the best science magazine ok^

156

ASTOUNDING STORIES

tbe markpt and I will alwa/a r^ad it. — Arthur
Gnaedinger, 110 Clinton St., Brooklyn, N. T.

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